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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221437">Marvelous and Uncommon Incidents</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlazer/pseuds/RedBlazer'>RedBlazer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftercare, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Writing &amp; Publishing, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bathtubs, Blow Jobs, Caretaking, Coming Untouched, Crying, Crying During Sex, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Eliot Waugh uses a cane, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Gen, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Hand Feeding, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Suicide, Overstimulation, POV Eliot Waugh, POV Quentin Coldwater, Physical Disability, Praise Kink, Pre-Threesome, Quentin Coldwater Deserves the Nicest Underwear, Restraints, Rimming, Safewords, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Spanking, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Subdrop, Subspace, Therapy, Top Eliot Waugh, Touch-Starved, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism, eliot waugh's canonical daddy kink, everything is TENDER</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:35:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>142,162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221437</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlazer/pseuds/RedBlazer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which everyone is a bit older and a bit wiser. </p><p>Quentin is the successful author of a bunch of romance novels. He's searching for inspiration for his next book and maybe looking to live a little vicariously through his characters once again. He's doing his best; taking his meds, seeing his therapist (who somehow tolerates him), and feeding The Catwins every night. Everything is fine until Quentin realizes that he himself could live out some of the fantasies he's only put into writing before.</p><p>Eliot is settling down somewhat in his thirties. While he's still as fabulous as ever, working as a costume designer. He's content as can be in his own little kingdom--really. Well, that is until Quentin comes calling and well and truly throws a complete wrench into things with one simple request. Then he begins to wonder if he was ever really content at all.</p><p>Also, theres a colony of feral cats.</p><p>Or the one where Quentin might just end up living happily ever after and there's lots of kinky sex.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Margo Hanson &amp; Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Margo Hanson/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>608</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>408</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. An Overreaction To Say The Least</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"A fictitious narrative in prose or verse; the interest of which turns upon marvelous and uncommon incidents." -Walter Scott's definition of a romance novel.</p><p>Let's just all imagine what would have happened if Quentin had been given a big old bag of romance novels as a teenager as well as Fillory and Further!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You’re fucking kidding me.” Quentin spluttered. He reached for the conveniently placed box of tissues on the small table beside the couch he was sitting on, using one to mop up the cold brew he’d dribbled down the front of his shirt. He had a meeting right after this, shit. He’d have to button up his blazer to cover the stain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across from him, Heather, his therapist (they’d been on a first name basis for years now) leveled him with a somewhat fond look and set her pen down on the legal pad she kept on her lap to write notes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once, she’d told him that he was welcome to read those notes. She told him that they were his own direct quotes. And boy, Quentin had </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted to do anything less in his entire </span>
  <em>
    <span>life</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What part of my suggestion do you feel is irrational, Quentin?” Heather asked. She reached for her own mug of tea sitting to the side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about the part where I should go find some sex dungeon somewhere and get flogged or whatever?” Quentin said mostly to his own shirt, still mopping up the coffee. He should really get a Tide pen to keep in his bag. Quentin was just prone to mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.” Heather responded, clicking her tongue once at him. “I don’t think I put it quite that way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that’s why he liked her so much. She called him out on his anxiety brain in a way that didn’t make him feel like a total psycho.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sighed, set his coffee down and tried to focus on her rather than his own racing thoughts. “No you didn’t. I mean--I think--I don’t like being in new situations.” She nodded, the international symbol for ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Go on.’</span>
  </em>
  <span> So Quentin took a deep breath, “I feel like it would just be really embarrassing, going into a place like that and not knowing anything. Plus like, what if they take one look at me and go ‘Ew, no. That guy’s clearly a weird loser. He’s not worth our spanking time.’ Oh and I also don’t know where any of them are and it seems like kind of an invite only situation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heather snorted into her mug. “Okay Quentin. I think we need to address some of the catastrophizing that is happening. So let’s backtrack. We were speaking about your new book, about the idea you wanted to pursue. But you felt like your,” she peeked down at her notes, “‘characters would be cheapened by your own lack of experience and understanding.’ so then </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>asked what you could do to gain some experience with BDSM and that’s what led us here. Is that an accurate portrayal of events?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. It was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Quentin took a deep breath. “I guess I wouldn’t need to uh--actually go. What I mean is that there are probably ways that I can learn things not by actually doing--that.” Shit now he couldn’t even say it. Quentin wrote smut for a living! He literally wrote </span>
  <em>
    <span>romance novels</span>
  </em>
  <span> and yet he couldn’t look his therapist in the eye and tell her more than the barest details about the next book he wanted to write. “I could do more research, read more. And I guess there’s also porn but--probably no.” he wound down pathetically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If going somewhere makes your anxiety really ratchet up, by all means do not go there, Quentin. But I think that you may be classifying the information you could be getting into two very different camps. Both are extreme. One is very academic and the other is going to a place that you’ve described as very chaotic and stressful.” Heather said, holding up two hands, shaking one and then the other in her hand to illustrate her point. “When you were researching your last series, I don’t remember that you went and lived without running water or electricity for years on end. What did you do for that hands-on experience?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I found people, uh--” Quentin scratched his forehead. “I found Sven who taught me a few things about blacksmithing and showed me his forge. And I uh--I visited some castles and spoke with historians about what life was like in the 1600s. Bow and arrow stuff. Oh, I took that awful cooking class where I had to eat so much suet. Just so much suet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heather chuckled. “Okay, so you found some people that you could trust, that were experts in their field and you spoke with them about their skills? You even tried your hand at some of them yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we apply that logic to your new book?” Heather asked. “Can you try to find a person who is willing to talk to you about their experiences so that you can draw upon them for your writing? I think it’s a far cry from going and finding ‘some sex dungeon or whatever’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn it, Heather.” Quentin sighed, “You have this magic fucking power to make me realize that the completely impossible, irrational things my brain comes up with aren’t really that crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heather shrugged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Regardless of what you choose to do, Quentin. I think you have the tools at your disposal to manage your anxiety thoughts and make good choices for yourself.” Heather said, firmly and like there was no room for argument. “Now tell me more about this story, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin turned red. He’d make sure she got a galley copy if the thing ever actually got written.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the hell happened to you? You look like something stuck to the bottom of my shoe, Coldwater.” Margo was waiting for him in the very fancy lobby of the fucking big deal premium cable network where they were set to have a meeting 10 minutes ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Quentin was late.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Quentin was an actual bisexual disaster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he looked the part, having had to run from his therapist’s office to the subway and then from the subway to the skyscraper in Midtown where the meeting was happening. So his hair was escaping its hair tie, his shirt was coming untucked from his pants, sweat was beading on his brow, and of course there was the coffee stain on his light blue button-down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo looked perfect, as she always did in a form fitting sheath dress in a deep burgundy. She carried her lucky crocodile skin Birkin bag by her side. Quentin could see the top of her iPad peeking out from inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She ushered him into the nearest elevator, tugging at his hair to fix it as soon as the doors closed behind them, mindless of the two other people inside the elevator with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now look, when it comes to negotiating your cut of this whole thing, let me cut them off at the fucking knees and then go in for the balls. Don’t say a </span>
  <em>
    <span>word</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Margo told him, once again heedless of the other occupants of the elevator as she pulled his hair back into some semblance of order with practiced motions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright.” Quentin said. He was used to Margo’s brand of brusk business practice over the years. He was pretty sure that Quentin was one of only a few (incredibly successful) clients she had, which meant she was making a killing off the royalties right along with Quentin </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> she had a huge vested interest in his success.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was honestly the last fucking place he ever thought he would have ended up. When his dad had brought a big stack of books to him the first time he’d been hospitalized, Quentin had blown through all of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fillory and Further</span>
  </em>
  <span> and then proceeded to devour the five romance novels that Julia had snuck into the bag for him. He’d taken so much comfort from the fact that each of the books promised the resolution of a happy ending. Plus, you know, all the hot sex scenes. Quentin had come out on the other side reading everything he could get his hands on, ordering what he couldn’t find at the library.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he’d started writing his </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> stories. Novellas first. Then standalone books. Finally, the series that had gotten him noticed and on the bestseller list.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The books that had saved his life. The books that had gotten him Margo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She squeezed his shoulders with both of her hands. All done. Quentin finished tucking his shirt back into his pants and wiped his brow with a loose tissue he found in his messenger bag, Margo eyed the bag with open disgust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>writer</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Quentin needed his Bag of Holding for his computer, his notes, loose scribblings, chargers, pens, and Advil. She could deal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elevator reached the 30th floor, the doors popped open with a cheerful </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ding!</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Margo gave him a swift swat on the ass to get him moving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, mama needs a new house in the Hamptons!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Margo insisted on celebrating every successful negotiation with a 3 martini lunch like she was on Mad Men. Regardless of the time of day or the part of town they were in, Margo could find a dirty vodka martini and a cobb salad. She was that good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheers to a three season order deal with an option for three more, Mr. Executive Producer!” Margo held up her martini glass expectantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sighed and picked up his own. There was no one else in the restaurant. It was 11:30 AM.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clinked his glass against hers, feeling giddy and also terrified as he took his first sip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really didn’t think they were going to agree to all of our stipulations.” Quentin said, setting the glass down before he could slosh any more from the rim onto the table. Martinis, while elegant, were not for shaky hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo leaned back in her chair looking every bit the queen she was at that moment. “Oh honey, they’re totally </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucked</span>
  </em>
  <span> now that their Big Time Dragon Boner War series is ending next year. Your book has everything they’re looking for in a show; a dedicated audience, a sweeping and detailed setting, and more hot sex than you can shake a dragon dick at.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin spluttered, “Well, when you put it that way.” He took another gulp. “The Dragonbond Series is actually a really compelling allegory for--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I don’t give a fuck.” Margo drained the rest of her martini and signaled the waiter for another two. “The second those cockshy show-runners decided to have all the dragon sex </span>
  <em>
    <span>off screen</span>
  </em>
  <span> they fucking lost me. That won’t be the case with your project though, Q. You get to sign off on every change they make down to whether </span>
  <span>Ciaran</span>
  <span> takes it in the missionary position or doggy style.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a relief.” Quentin said dryly. “I had concerns.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo set her empty glass down and folded her hands together under her chin, looking at him warmly. “I’m proud of you, Quentin.” she said. Quentin felt warm and wanted to shrug off the compliment, but that was something he was working on. So he said nothing and let it sink in. “Really. This is a big fucking deal. For you and me, and for all of your fans. All of those mommy book clubs, dirty old ladies, and boys on reddit who claim they’re only reading your books because of how badass the heroes are even if they ‘fuck around with each other’. We’re going to have to talk about a mass paperback rerelease when the show premieres. Don’t be surprised if you wind up back on the bestseller list again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quentin </span>
  </em>
  <span>was the one who was draining his glass. Luckily, the waiter arrived with two new martinis in chilled glasses. He needed to eat something soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Quentin muttered if only to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d put the final book in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Clockwork Chronicles</span>
  </em>
  <span> to bed three months ago. The much anticipated conclusion to the series, book seven </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Last Stroke of Midnight</span>
  </em>
  <span> had taken Quentin far too long to write. The release of the book had been pushed back twice. Nearly three years had gone by since his last book had been published. It was set to release in about two months. Quentin had interviews, appearances, and the fucking</span>
  <em>
    <span> launch party</span>
  </em>
  <span> to dread between now and then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus the book tour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And </span>
  <em>
    <span>then</span>
  </em>
  <span> the new book.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Also time on set in Scotland at the beginning of production within the coming months.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d written absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the new book. Not a word. Not a character name. Nada.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quentin. Snap out of it!” Margo actually snapped in his face with her perfect nails. “Panic later. Celebrate now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin could do that. He could absolutely fucking do that and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> focus on the crazy number of plates he had spinning, including but not limited to finding someone who would willingly talk to him about his next book and not laugh in his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So yeah, Quentin quickly centered himself and cheersed his glass against Margo’s again. He ordered a big-ass plate of fries when the waiter came to ask if they would like to order anything with their drinks. There had been a touch of judgement with the question, which he and Margo glossed right over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They chatted about who their dream casting would be for the show. Margo was pushing for some guy from a superhero franchise named Chris, but that was just because she wanted to see his dick. She doesn’t even care which one really. Margo just wanted to see some, in her own words ‘Swinging Chris Dick’.  Quentin favored lesser known actors who had stage backgrounds. He found them to be more interesting and nuanced in their performances overall. But he </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> kinda wanted to see Superhero-Chris-Guy’s dick. But in a more respectful manner?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo was happily eating most of the fries, her salad completely abandoned when she asked the question. “So as your agent, I get to know about the next book--or series right? I get to know first. Because I’m your favorite and technically I work for you but I’m your fucking favorite apart from Fen and that awful guy you insist on doing the editing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Penny is an asshole, but he’s the best content editor in the business, you know that. And like--Fen makes sure that things actually get done. She has a planner and confirms things with people so I don’t have to.” Quentin said, deflecting and using his remote personal assistant to do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo rolled her eyes. “I’d like to see either of them get Big Premiere Cable to roll over and spread it.” She chomped down on a french fry to punctuate her sentence. “Now tell me about the book. I love lording this stuff over other people. Because I’m your favorite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Catwins are my favorite. And they hate me.” He signed, resigned. Quentin squared his shoulders and launched right into it. “It’s a contemporary romance. Standalone novel? Maybe a duology. I haven’t decided yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, contemporary. I love that for you!” Margo took out her phone and absently took down some notes as he spoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was </span>
  <em>
    <span>positive</span>
  </em>
  <span> these weren’t direct quotes like the ones Heather took.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He also never wanted to read them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, it’s another queer romance. Demisexual protagonist--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When is it </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Demisexual protagonist and a bisexual love interest. It’s about uh--</span>
  <em>
    <span>itsaboutBDSM</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Well that's part of it. It’s also largely about Victorian mourning practices.” Quentin said the last part into his nearly empty second martini. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> about Victorian mourning practices. Not at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looked over at Margo, her eyes were big and glassy, her mouth held open in surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re telling me you want to write a kinky, modern BDSM romance?” She asked, her tone even. Quentin nodded hesitantly. “That’s gonna get the world soaking wet, Q!” Margo exclaimed, shocking the small lunch crowd that had begun to trickle in from the various office buildings around. She launched herself over the small table to kiss him on both cheeks with huge smacking sounds. Margo wore that really matte liquid lipstick that never left a mark on his skin, but still his cheeks flushed and he rubbed the spots with his fingertips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” He asked in a small voice. “You don’t think it’s...out of my wheelhouse?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo waved a dismissive hand at him. “Hell no! Quentin, you write really fucking great relationships, okay? This is just a different kind of one. Oh, I think this is really gonna be written just for me. This is mama’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>wheelhouse</span>
  </em>
  <span>, young Q. My shower-head is </span>
  <em>
    <span>ready</span>
  </em>
  <span> if you know what I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s eyebrows would one day lower from his hairline. </span>
  <em>
    <span>One day.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He really should have been used to this by now. Margo was the complete opposite of every agent he’d ever spoken with. And she’d pursued </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> after scrounging a copy of his first book, the one that he’d sent to every agent and publisher that he could only to receive notes back that it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>too long, too gay, and too weird</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be published.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Margo had come along. She went so far as to cyberstalk him until one day she cornered him in his favorite coffee shop and demanded that he choose her to be his agent in no uncertain terms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that, Margo had done what she did best, she went to fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>battle</span>
  </em>
  <span> for Quentin and his book. She didn’t take no for an answer. She somehow got him a deal that resulted in a full mass-market run of his book. It was honestly kind of outrageous and </span>
  <em>
    <span>amazing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But that was Margo, Outrageous and Amazing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On more than one occasion, she’d alluded to the fact that she’d shown up to the publisher’s CEO’s office in nothing more than a Burberry Trench Coat and Louboutins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did Quentin sometimes worry that his entire career hinged too much on that fact? Yes, but at least it got his foot in the door?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, if someone like Margo saw something in Quentin that she deemed special, who was he to go against that? Honestly?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they’d been together for seven years. Professionally, not like--never romantically. One time she’d kissed him on New Years Eve at midnight during some fundraiser she’d dragged him to for the PR, but then she’d also kissed the other three nearest people right after. He had been pretty sure he only got the invite because Margo’s best friend and weird codependent life partner had been in Rome or somewhere. Who really ever knew?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being around Margo was </span>
  <em>
    <span>intense</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Especially when she had her full focus on you. As she did now, because Quentin hadn’t spoken in minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Margo set her elbows down on the table and leveled him with a look, resting her chin on her clasped hands. “How are you feeling, Coldwater? Beginning of a project, this is usually when you go all squirrely on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin bristled, “Yeah, Heather and I talked about that this morning. I’m all booked out with her for the next three months.” While Margo and Heather had never actually met before, both knew far too much about each other. Once Heather had playfully suggested bringing Margo for a couples counseling session. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was good that Margo made him accountable for this kind of stuff. She didn’t want him burning out </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Or holed up in a cabin in the Poconos </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span> because he’d thought what he truly needed to get work done was complete isolation from distraction </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So wrong. Quentin did happen to get a little weird and scattered even for him when he was beginning a new book, the sheer number of choices and storytelling opportunities could overwhelm him and mean that nothing got done at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’ve got that taken care of.” Quentin continued. “I’m still on the Great Social Media Embargo of 2020. Fen has all my passwords and the publicity people are managing all that stuff so I don’t have a reason to go--you know, read comments or go down the Scroll Hole.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo nodded, “Yeah fuck everyone who doesn’t recognize your genius.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That included all the dickholes who thought it was really cool to tell him he was going to hell for telling stories that didn’t adhere to ‘Good Christian Values’ or the ones who would just pick and pick and pick apart plot until they found the smallest crumb of discrepancy. It just wasn’t a place for Quentin. And that was okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, fuck those guys alright.” Quentin said, raising his glass of water halfheartedly. “I’m just going to try to get at least three hours of writing done a day--” Margo raised both eyebrows and tipped her head forward at him, “--</span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> use the standing desk so my back doesn’t get all fucked up again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Margo added.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sighed. “Yes. That’s taken care of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin paid what would have been a small fortune to him a few years ago to have all of his meals cooked at his favorite local restaurant and delivered in individual (recyclable) containers with reheating instructions on them. He didn’t want a repeat of the time Margo had physically dragged him to a Trader Joes in his pajama pants because of his bare pantry when she’d dropped by unannounced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She liked to do that, to make sure that he wasn’t living like a college student or a hermit, or you know like an actual guy with depression, anxiety and a splash of ADHD for good measure. Margo did things like making Quentin hire someone to come clean and do his laundry. She bought him one of those Peloton bikes that he seemed to only use between the hours of 2 and 4 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll keep you posted on how I’m doing.” Quentin assured her, with a roll of his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Margo leaned across the table and grasped his hand in both of her own. Her manicure was a flawless nude color. Her hands were always way warmer than he was expecting. “It’s not because of the book. I could give a big old bag of dragon dicks about the book. It’s about you, okay? You’re my </span>
  <em>
    <span>Q, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Q. I want you to be okay. Not as my client, but like as a person who I loved if I were capable of feeling human emotions. Which I am not, because I’ve evolved beyond that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She squeezed his hands tightly between her own and then let him go. Quentin felt kinda tingly and maybe a little weepy. It was the martinis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, okay you’re a cold bitch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t use the B-Word about anyone other than Margo. She seemed to prefer it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn straight.” Margo smirked, tipping her glass at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So over the years, Quentin had built his little support structure, mostly through the intervention of friends and people he paid to lookout for his mental wellbeing. They were little fortifications to keep him somewhat socially maladjusted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like getting his meals delivered. That meant that he couldn’t succumb to scurvy or some other sea-faring disease. Plus, you know he didn’t have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>choose</span>
  </em>
  <span> what to make. It was all labeled with the day and how long to microwave it for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cleaning woman who came on Wednesdays made Quentin keep his apartment in somewhat working order because he had to do the </span>
  <em>
    <span>pre-clean</span>
  </em>
  <span> clean in which he gathered all of the plates and mugs that had accumulated over the course of the week lest Sohpia think that he was an absolute garbage monster when she came over. Plus they had a very unofficial book club where she told him all about the clean Christian romance and true crime books that she was reading and Quentin listened while ‘helping’ wipe down the countertops and cabinets in his kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there was the app on his phone that reminded him to take his meds, along with the nightly text from Julia to ‘touch base’ with him, but was really just a coverup to ensure he’d taken his meds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had therapy every week with Heather regardless of where he was. They teleconferenced when he was sick or out of town on a book tour (or in Hell, nee New Jersey for some family function).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were other things, of course like going to his local coffee shop to work practically every day because it was relatively quiet in the back and he’d never been able to master steaming milk or making cold brew at home. Fen ensured that emails actually were answered in a timely manner. She told him when he wanted to be and where through a series of strongly worded texts throughout the week as well as several loud reminders from his calendar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of these little helping mechanisms kept him somewhat clean, clothed, fed, social, productive, and with power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it was The Catwins that really did force him out of the house every day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Rupert, Jane, and Martin were feral cats, and if Quentin didn’t get his ass out of his apartment every night around 10 PM to go feed them, they would fucking die. Or at least that’s what Quentin’s Anxiety Brain told him on a daily basis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So regardless of how tired, scattered, or empty Quentin was feeling on a given day, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get up, put on his shoes and walk the six blocks to the small parking lot where three hateful, huge rat-killing cats were waiting to be fed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had started about two years ago, when Quentin had moved into his current apartment (which he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>bought</span>
  </em>
  <span> with his own </span>
  <em>
    <span>money</span>
  </em>
  <span> because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span>, plus Margo insisted that real estate was the best investment you could make) in an up and coming neighborhood in Brooklyn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been wracked with absolute executive dysfunction when it came to the place. Where to put the couch, where to put his desk, what to do about the crazy number of books he’d hauled from his childhood bedroom to his dorm room, to a series of shitty apartments, finally to his own ‘less-shitty-but-still-needed-work-from-a-contractor’ apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julia had been helping him in the only way she really could, by just making the executive decision where things should go and banishing Quentin for an hour to ‘cool the fuck off’. So Quentin had been wandering when he heard Martin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin had been the smallest, a tiny ginger ball of filth with a broken leg. His brother and sister had fucking attacked Quentin when he’d tried to get close enough to pick the little guy up.  Jane had swiped at him with razor sharp claws and Rupert yowled so loudly that Quentin had jumped back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Quentin had raced over to a bodega and plied the three cats with smelly cans of tunafish. He’d sat down next to the cans and waited while his jeans became filthy from the exhaust and who knew what else littering the pavement. He’d waiting for what seemed like hours until brave little Jane came over, her white and orange coat dingy down her back from sleeping under one of the nearby cars. Eventually she ate, and seeing that she wasn’t being accosted by Quentin, Rupert joined her, and then Martin had limped pathetically towards them on his sad little legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin had gone back to his apartment and spent the next four hours locating a cat rescue in Brooklyn that would help him. They’d agreed to help trap the cats and bring them to a clinic to get their shots, be spayed and neutered, they’d looked at Martin’s leg. It had needed to be amputated. His bones were just never going to mend properly and the Vet had assured Quentin that Martin was young enough to get around on three legs no problem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there had been the matter of seeing if they were adoptable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fucking weren’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of them were little terrors. They’d been on their own too long to be anything other than feral.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Quentin had brought back Rupert and Jane and released them into their territory so they felt at home. And Martin had lived in Quentin’s empty office for two weeks while his incision healed, hating Quentin the entire time. Growling and hissed at him constantly, looking pathetic in his little plastic cone all the while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually Quentin had brought him back to his brother and sister to their little kingdom under a pickup truck with no tires and a dumpster behind a vegan barbecue (How? Why) restaurant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It became his ritual to go and check up on the three of them every night. He fed them wet and dry food on disposable paper plates that he threw into the dumpster when they were finished. Quentin bought plastic tubs lined with old towels and blankets when the weather grew cold and placed them by the car so they would have some sort of protection from New York winter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, they still fucking hated him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, sometimes Martin would let Quentin pet him, but he always looked like he was seconds away from sinking his teeth into Quentin’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Quentin had The Catwins who loathed him with every fibre of their being. He had his little six block walk there and back every night that he was in town. When he wasn’t around, someone from the rescue would come and feed them. They probably fucking rolled over and showed their big fluffy bellies to whoever that was. Quentin had three little (big, strong, once again rat-killing) lives who depended on Quentin on a daily basis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was a lot. Especially for Quentin, who was sometimes prone to thinking that he was an island which no one was really dependent on. Even if he’d been told </span>
  <em>
    <span>numerous</span>
  </em>
  <span> times that wasn’t the case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole point of depression was that it really wasn’t rational. It was just nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a week since his celebration lunch with Margo, Quentin stood there in his hoodie, watching the Catwins absolutely house the expensive cat food that Quentin insisted on getting for them. He usually spent this time shuffling around on his phone, trying to give the cats space but also leaving himself open for </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> small affection they might offer him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which meant this morning Heather had asked him how his, you know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>research</span>
  </em>
  <span> had been going. Which, it really hadn’t. At all. Instead Quentin had spent about a full week researching death practices in the Victorian era, which didn’t have a lick to do with the book he wanted to write, but was really fascinating. So he’d told her that, and then a whole bunch about mourning clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heather, like a rational human being, informed him that he was avoiding because of his anxiety. Which yes, was a thing he paid her to do on a weekly basis. But still was a reminder of the fact that Quentin wrote hot and heavy romance novels for a living and somehow couldn’t (or wouldn’t) just woman up (to take a page out of Margo’s book) and just fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>find </span>
  </em>
  <span>a person who would talk to him about being a dom or a sub or whatever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was really only so far that he could go with research and reading. What he wanted--what Quentin wanted was to share experience--wait no. Nope. That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. Not at all. No, what Quentin needed was a relatively friendly individual who would be open to talking to him about what it felt like to have kinky hot sex. He wanted to know why power imbalance appealed to people on both sides of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And did it kinda make Quentin tingly all over to think about? Yeah. It did while he was trolling the internet for research and it had ever since he read his first D/s erotica that one of the writers he’d been on a panel with had mentioned off handedly. Yes. Yeah. For sure. Reading about characters giving over control, surrendering to that quiet place of being owned and taken care of--well, quite frankly it made his hair feel like it was going to stand on end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin mulled this over on his walk home, hands in his pockets while a big bag of dry cat food rattled around in his messenger bag. He was a romance writer. Quentin prided himself on writing characters who had aspirations and struggles, who wanted things and asked for them--especially in bed. That was kind of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>point</span>
  </em>
  <span> of romance, in his opinion. It was a safe place where characters could explore their sexual desires with other characters who respected and </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved them</span>
  </em>
  <span>, wanted to make every one of those fantasies a reality. Likewise, readers could live vicariously through those fantasies in a safe, controlled environment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiction--especially romance, was a place where there was </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> lube or a corner to screw in. Where two (or hell three or four) people who were meant to be together would find a way to do just that. And there was always a happy ending, whatever that looked like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was romance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Real life was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> exactly the same thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Quentin had kind of resigned himself to a legacy of great romances on paper and not so much for himself. Which was--you know, not great. Nor was it a thing that Heather thought was all that accurate or healthy for him to be thinking about, but they were working on it, working on the things that Quentin didn’t think he really deserved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a shock really that maybe a part of him wanted to write the book to live vicariously through these characters, as he had so many times before. Hadn’t he been the kid who dreamt of stepping through a clock into Fillory as a child? Yes, with every fiber of his being. So he’d grown into a man who wrote about another man doing just that and discovering a world of beauty, thrilling romance, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>magic.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And just so much sex. Like it really couldn’t be understated how many sex scenes he packed into his books.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a common feature of his Goodreads reviews.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Quentin wasn’t as brave as </span>
  <span>Ciaran was. He wasn’t a badass magician who would control </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span> and step through one reality to another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quentin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin, who had three cats who hated him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three exes from incredibly short-lived relationships. Two girls. One guy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three seasons of television to stress over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d made absolutely no progress on his next book. He’d barely written anything in three months. He was losing it. He was a total failure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was exactly the kind of language that Heather would call ‘not productive’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was a work in progress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin gave it another few days before he began to crack. He was in the notecard and Excel document stage of his writing process. It was a complicated system in which Quentin kept track of each of the scenes in his book on small notecards. There was an elaborate color coding system of pens and abbreviations for locations, characters, themes, and the timeline. The Excel spreadsheet was a backup of the notecards in case they were lost or he spilled coffee on them (again). Currently they were all pinned up on the wall of Quentin’s office (the second, bigger bedroom of his apartment). Quentin stood back and looked at them for long minutes at a time, choosing one and trading it with another, adding a scene here or there, throwing some out entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The story was somewhat of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>mess</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was one thing to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> the story was going to go, but a very different beast to write it through the lens of how the characters were feeling. That had always been the hardest part for Quentin. His brain spat out ideas by the barrel-full, but when it came to the characters and their emotions, it was a very different story.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now he had neither the characters </span>
  <em>
    <span>or</span>
  </em>
  <span> the story working.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin scratched his head and stepped back from the wall before all of his handwriting began to blur together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This just wasn’t working.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that’s when Margo buzzed up to his apartment from the box outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Coldwater! You descent?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin glared up at the high ceiling of his office with its original crown molding, hating how predictable he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did a quick sweep of the apartment on his way to buzz her into the building, making sure to close the door to his bedroom. She didn’t need to see the ever growing stack of books by his bed, threatening to topple over. He really needed to stop with the midnight ordering. He absently picked up the coffee mugs littering the living room/dining room/kitchen and dumped them in the sink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo knocked twice on the door to his apartment with a quick rap of her knuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Margo greeted him with a purring kiss to his cheek and the whirlwind of her cashmere poncho. “they fucking yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo seemed to forget that the love scenes were usually the </span>
  <em>
    <span>last</span>
  </em>
  <span> part of the story he wrote. He always felt like they were better if he went through and penciled in the entire story from beginning to end and then went back to fill in the holes so to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d told Margo that once and she’d laughed so hard that she threatened to bill him for reducing the longevity of her Botox.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sighed dramatically, shutting the door behind her. “Yeah, you know about that--I was thinking maybe Science Fiction instead? You know, a space epic, but without the Manifest Destiny of it all?” he was only 90% kidding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo whirled around, pulling a bottle of white wine from the confines of her purse, a look of interest on her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will there be alien dick?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Just so much.” Quentin said, deadpan. “Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> work with me for access to my written smut?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice try,” Margo shook the bottle at him, knowingly. She walked to the kitchen and retrieved two stemless wine glasses from a cabinet above the sink. “I see we’re at the part of the writing process where you want to abandon ship for safer waters, or whatever. But I know you, Q. You’re not that kind of seaman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin accepted the glass, contrite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It just doesn’t really feel, right? You know?” Quentin said, taking a sip of white wine. It was probably very nice. Quentin couldn’t tell the difference. “This is just a very different kind of relationship than I’m used to writing. Or--you know I could do a spin-off from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clockwork Chronicles, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Oh! About Rowena and Tabitha? You know, daughters from warring houses? They’re both promised to awful lords...brothers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unless those brothers end up fucking too--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin blanched. Hard pass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be boring.” Margo chuckled. “Now tell me what’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> bugging you about this. Come to mama.” She held her arms out of him, perched perfectly in the corner of his expensive ass butter soft leather sofa. Margo had picked it out, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin woodenly sat down next to Margo and let her pull him into her arms as she was want to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Theirs was a much more tactile business relationship than most others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who the hell was he kidding? With Julia working on her PHD in California, Margo was his closest friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo clutched his head to her breast. Totally normal. She scratched his scalp with her smooth nails in a way that made him feel boneless and like he was gonna drop his wineglass. It had been, well, it had been a while since his last relationship. He was not Martin Catwin, ready to bite the hand that was petting him. Not at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no idea what I’m doing.” Quentin said, slightly muffled by the fabric of what was a truly fabulous poncho. “I’m a failure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, is that all?” Margo’s voice reverberated through his ear where it was pressed against her chest. “I don’t hang out with losers, loser. You aren’t a failure. You’re a talented writer. You’re a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> person. Like a really good fucking person. Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell me what’s going on in this brain!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she shook him against her in a way that made his wine splash dangerously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, okay. So I was talking to Heather about how I wanted to write this book, but how I didn’t feel like I could because I don’t really know anything about the BDSM scene, well apart from the five books I read and all the internet research, and one experimental podcast that turned out to be mostly about the care and keeping of houseplants but also kinda about bondage?” Quentin said. Once the floodgates opened with Quentin, they were kinda impossible to close again. “So she suggested that I get some in person experience and so I accused her of trying to send me to a sex dungeon, which was </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> not the case and I should probably send her an Edible Arrangement just for that alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah or just edibles.” Margo butted in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It really was much easier to talk to her when he couldn’t see her face. There was probably something to that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. So I think she meant that I should find a person to talk to, you know someone who has experience with that kind of stuff, you know. And now it’s been two weeks and I’ve made exactly zero progress. Plus, I’m this guy who makes a living writing </span>
  <em>
    <span>romance</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I can’t talk about </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> with someone because it’s too embarrassing and weird? Not so great but that’s what it feels like. And I don’t want the person I talk to to think I’m a huge poser who just wants to capitalize on their lifestyle--which I would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> do intentionally! So now I’m here, considering moving to the parking lot with The Catwins and we can all live under the dumpster together.” Quentin trailed off pathetically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean? That’s it? You need like a testimonial about tying people up and having earth shattering kinky sex?” Margo pulled him bodily away by the shoulders and cupped his cheek. “You little fucker, ask away! I’ll even show you my Red Room if you’re a good boy!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin spluttered and shuffled down the couch. He swallowed what remained in his glass of wine in one big mouthful. “I can’t ask you about this stuff </span>
  <em>
    <span>Margo.</span>
  </em>
  <span> We work together! It’s like two spheres of my life that shouldn’t cross--</span>
  <em>
    <span>ever! </span>
  </em>
  <span> I don’t need to see your fucking Red Room! I don’t want you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>show me</span>
  </em>
  <span> what it’s like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, quite honestly, given Margo’s temperament, finding out that she probably fell onto the dom side of things was absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> an earth shattering realization. Maybe one day they’d be able to talk about it like the actual adults they were. Quentin wasn’t capable of that. Not today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo rolled her eyes and shook a perfect finger in his face. “You are a basic ass bitch, Quentin Coldwater. But fine.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a pen and one of her own business cards, scrawling down a number on the back. “You can’t talk to me about all the dirty little things you want to do--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It kinda was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--fine. I’ll accept that even if I think it’s boring bullshit.” She handed him the card where a phone number was written in Margo’s precise sharp handwriting. “Just give Eliot a call and--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliot!?” Quentin was off the couch and across the room before he knew it. He was pretty sure he’d never moved so quickly or made the sharp squeak-gurgle with which he’d spoken the other man’s name. “You want me to fuck Eliot? Your best fucking friend? That Eliot?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hmm. He seemed to recall another recent instance in which he’d well and truly jumped to an epic conclusion regarding this </span>
  <em>
    <span>exact</span>
  </em>
  <span> problem. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost </span>
  </em>
  <span>like Quentin’s thought patterns were prone to making things out of proportion or taking huge leaps in logic…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should see someone about that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but i’m pretty sure we were discussing an </span>
  <em>
    <span>interview </span>
  </em>
  <span>here, Quentin. Not negotiating some sexual contract with Eliot, my best fucking friend.” Margo’s eyes were liquid and piercing as she stared him down. Like she could see right through his chest straight to his heart. “I mean, I know other people but I trust Eliot the most. Plus you already know him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Margo, he’s a cokehead!” Quentin exclaimed, looking around for the wine bottle, locating it on the kitchen counter. He walked to retrieve it as he spoke. “I don’t think his experiences are on the level enough to base my whole fucking book around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo shrugged. “Spiritually, yeah. Forever and always. In reality, no. Eliot’s really mellowed out, which I’m sure you’ve noticed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah. Yes. Getting hit by a rogue bike messenger and then having to have multiple plates and screws put in to repair the damage had the tendency to do that. Margo had been pretty intense throughout all of Eliot’s recovery. Quentin remembered her leaving meetings early to go to his physical therapy appointments, using whatever strings she could to get Eliot to the best doctors, and practically living out of his apartment for the better part of a year--though it seemed like that was a return to form for the two of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He still offered me ecstasy at my first book release party.” Quentin exclaimed, pouring himself another large glass of wine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>seven years ago</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not last week and that was Eliot trying to be hospitable!” Margo waved a hand at him, brushing him off. “That’s just Eliot how he is. Or it was. He’s just as fabulous now as he was back then, though not nearly as dependent on chemical intervention.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s still a chainsmoker.” Quentin said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, he’s not a nun, Quentin.” Margo scoffed, rolling her eyes. She poured the rest of the bottle into her glass when Quentin set it down on the coffee table before her. “He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Not some mustache twirling villain tweaker who ties boys to the train tracks in his spare time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, well he certainly dresses the part.” Quentin breathed out, his heart still pounding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t. Quentin </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> sit there and talk about that kind of stuff with handsome, cool, sexy Eliot. He would literally combust into flames from embarrassment. And all this before they decided on which Chris they wanted to be in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clockwork Chronicles</span>
  </em>
  <span> TV series!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo smiled into her wine glass. “He thinks you're cute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And how could she say things like that so offhandedly without telling him to sit down?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin stopped dead in his pacing back and forth across the living room. “Don’t be mean, Margo. No way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, way.” Margo nodded. “You’re totally his type. He loves you little nerds, likes to make them all babble even more and squirm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin flushed up to his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo just could really paint a picture with her words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nope</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Quentin said. He went back to pacing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s totally his thing.” She was the picture of nonchalance as if describing Eliot’s routine of going to the farmers market on Sundays and not his apparent proclivity for being a </span>
  <em>
    <span> sexual nerd whisperer</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I don’t get it, but to each their own. I much prefer my subs obedient and still. He’s a real softie. All carrot and no stick if you know what I mean.” Margo let out a little shiver, as though caught in a fond memory. “What can I say? If he wants to put up with bratty behavior, that’s on him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t talk to you about this. It’s completely inappropriate.” Quentin said. His wine was going to be gone within the next two minutes at this rate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up. We’re friends. Friends talk about sex. We’ve done it before. And I hope after you get railed by Eliot--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my god!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope I get the full play-by play. ‘Cuz reading between the lines, Mr. Writer, that’s what's happening right now! You want Eliot’s big old dick. ‘I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air.’” Jesus. Only Margo could pervert a quote from Galadriel without skipping a beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t--I don’t want that. I just want to talk to him about what it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span>. All of it. That’s it.” Quentin held up a hand to placate Margo. “Research. That’s it. That’s all. Really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo snorted, “If that’s what you say, fine. Believe that all you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you!” Quentin said. He dropped back down into the couch, on the opposite side from Margo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He really does think you’re cute though.” Margo said, trying for nonchalance. “I put a strict fucking kabash on the whole situation from jump though, seeing as how you’re my client and it really wasn’t the right time--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, not a great idea to start dating in the midst of a major depressive episode.” Quentin said softly, to himself more than anyone else. “Not super hot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo scooched down the couch toward him, “I get paid to promote your books, get them published, and get us both fucking bankrolled. I don’t get paid to tell you that you’re a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>catch</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Coldwater. I didn’t mean it wasn’t the right time for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I meant it wasn’t the right time for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You were both kinda going through some of life’s prime bullshit in your early to mid twenties. He wouldn’t have been good for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, recalling the brief run-ins he’d had with Eliot in the first few years he’d worked with Margo as they’d developed their own strange friendship. He remembered Eliot sauntering, actually sauntering into each and every room they were in regardless of the time of day. Eyes always glassy and yet still somehow far too calculating. The drawn lines of his sharp cheekbones from too many late nights. Smelling of all kinds of cologne and perfume from crushing up against too many bodies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His shaky, yet somehow still elegant hands always with fading ink stamps on the back from innumerable clubs in The Village.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there was the fact that he was always just so buttoned up, but just a </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch</span>
  </em>
  <span> undone in his smeared eyeliner from the night before. His ties had always looked like someone had used them to grab Eliot and tug him towards their lips. The hair. Forget about it. Sex hair, thy name is Eliot Waugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been a mess. A luminous fucking mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And clingy. He always found a way to just wrap himself around whoever was there whether it was Margo, Quentin, or the nearest stranger. It didn’t matter that he hardly </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin. He was just there, around Margo. Another warm body at a party or in a bar after meeting with some industry contact. And where Margo went, inevitably Eliot arrived like a homing pigeon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had always seemed like such a fucking waste because Eliot was beautiful and really smart when he made any sense at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless of his state of mess, he’d always been firmly on a shelf in Quentin’s brain that had been labeled ‘NSFQ’ Not Safe For Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe Margo was right? Maybe Eliot had mellowed out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin had certainly taken the better part of a decade to sort out his own mental health and well being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Eliot, well he’d--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot had continued to make appearances at all of the work functions that Margo forced upon them. There’d been a brief time during his recovery when he’d been absent, and that absence was felt at every charity function and publishing thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon his return, well, it just hadn’t been </span>
  <em>
    <span>fair. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot still always became the center of attention with ease, and he usually left with someone other than the person he arrived with. In recent years he was as impeccably dressed as always, maybe even more-so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there was the fact that he walked with a cane sometimes and made it hotter than it had any right to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At at Quentin’s last book launch (two years ago at this point) in his immaculate hunter green tuxedo jacket with his hair slicked back like something out of a black and white movie, he’d been a distracting sight enough that Quentin had avoided him the entire fucking night out of sheer need to survive the party without an inappropriate erection. Or you know, making an ass out himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been the first time that Quentin had seen him since the accident. He cut such a striking figure with his clear eyes, one arm wrapped around Margo’s waist and the other secured around the silver handle of his cane. And of course </span>
  <em>
    <span>the cane</span>
  </em>
  <span> was also sophisticated and coordinated with his outfit. He looked like some reformed rake back from the war out of every one of the Regency romance novels that Quentin devoured throughout high school--before, you know, realizing </span>
  <em>
    <span>why was everyone straight and white in those books?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And so Quentin had avoided Eliot, not really knowing what to say to a guy like Eliot. Eliot was a man he knew in passing, but not really? How much did anyone know about Eliot? Where he was from or if he’d just appeared into being one fine spring day?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That hadn’t stopped Eliot from tracking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quentin</span>
  </em>
  <span> down near the end of the party. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>polite</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his own way. Eliot always made a point to thank hosts. He’d found Quentin near the bar. Eliot’s bowtie had been undone, draped artfully around his neck. Fuck. Eliot had smiled down at Quentin fondly, always so fondly, tugged him in for a quick hug. And then he’d said, ‘Quentin, my boy, if I were ever going to read a book, this would be it for sure. Good work.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he’d let Quentin go with a quick squeeze of his shoulders and melted back into the crowd. Probably to go throw some young man into his carriage and elope with him to Scotland.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin flushed again now at the sheer memory of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he was supposed to believe that Eliot thought he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>attractive</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Had thought Quentin was cute for 7 </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was the kind of shit he put his characters through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin realized what a cruel master of his small universes he was now that he was experiencing something like this for the first time--this rising action.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take his stupid number and shoot him a text.” Margo said, reminding Quentin of the card that was sitting on the coffee table. “He’ll talk to you about whatever you want to ask, he’s kind of an open book about that stuff. Now if you want a more hands-on approach to your education--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay! Okay, I’ll text him! Just stop putting images in my head.” Quentin relented.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo shrugged like they’d come to an easy compromise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait</span>
  </em>
  <span> for this new book, you dirty bird.” Margo smiled. She leaned back against him, retrieving the remote from somewhere on the couch and then proceeded to put on an episode of Shitt’s Creek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, Quentin took his meds and walked Margo out of the apartment on his nightly trip to feed the Catwins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could swear that Jane didn’t look at him with complete hatred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was progress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then she told me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>text him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like that was a logical thing for me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever do</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was days later. Quentin should probably start looking for a new therapist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heather stopped writing, glancing up at him with what he could only describe of fond annoyance. They were </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span> as a team. Quentin accepted this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Text Eliot?” Heather repeated. “Eliot, a person you’ve known for almost a decade? The best friend of one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> closest friends, Quentin? </span>
  <em>
    <span>That Eliot?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, well when you phrase it like that, I sound like I’m blowing things completely out of proportion.” Quentin took a guilty sip of his coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s exactly what it sounded like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quentin, your brain is wired in a way that causes these intrusive thoughts and assumptions. About your work, your relationships, yourself. Part of why we’re working together is to give you tools that you can use to deal with these thoughts and push through them before they become a detriment to your mental health. Is that a fair assessment of our time together?” Heather had completely put away her pen at this point. That meant business.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah--that’s yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So Margo told you to text Eliot. What’s the worst thing that could happen if you texted him?” Heather asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess he has no recollection of who I am--because have I told you about </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the drugs and stuff? Just so many drugs--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes you have, many times over the years.” Heather nodded. He wondered briefly if she was this blunt with her other patients. “Okay, so if you were to text him and because of all the aforementioned drug use, he had no idea who you were or what the hell you were doing with his number, how would you react to that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin gulped. “I guess I’d feel pretty insignificant. Like I wasn’t memorable enough for High King Eliot to remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a reasonable fear, that we aren’t as special to the people in our lives as they are to us.” Heather picked her pen back up and twirled it between her fingers absently. “How likely is that to happen? Say you texted him right now, how likely is it that Eliot would look at your name, roll his eyes and say, ‘Who’s this?’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sighed in defeat, “I guess it’s pretty fucking unlikely. He sent me a Christmas card last year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been Eliot in a Santa hat, alone in a massive copper bathtub complete with bubbles, in the most gorgeous marble bathroom Quentin had ever seen. Eliot had been holding a champagne flute aloft and the only text had read, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Cheers, Motherfucker! - XXXO Eliot’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“So those worry thoughts of yours are probably not that likely to happen, huh?” Heather raised both eyebrows at him. Checkmate, bitches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin giggled a bit hysterically again. “You’re fired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, okay. I’ll see you next week.” Heather brushed him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once again. This is why he kept her around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. So if I were going to text Eliot, what do I say?” Quentin asked, fidgeting with his phone, thumbing the passcode. He’d already put Eliot’s number into his contacts. He hadn’t trusted that Sophia wouldn’t throw it away when she came that week. “‘Will you talk to me about if you're more of a leather daddy or like a stone top?’ ‘Do you make people sign weird contracts like Christian Grey?’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely </span>
  </em>
  <span>not ask Eliot where exactly he got off for allegedly thinking Quentin was </span>
  <em>
    <span>cute </span>
  </em>
  <span>for seven years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heather stared at him, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>really?</span>
  </em>
  <span> expression on her face, like they </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> just talked about this kind of thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. I get it. I’m doing it again.” Quentin said, already scrolling to the contact in question. He found Eliot’s number there among his Dermatologist and someone he didn’t really remember from Yale. “So I probably just say something like ‘Hey. This is Quentin, Margo gave me your number and I was wondering if you had time to talk about something for a book I’m writing?’” Quentin typed out the text as he was speaking, looking up every now and again to Heather for validation. She nodded warmly and in the warm glow of that expression, the worst happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hit ‘Send’ by accident. The phone let out a little ‘Whoop’ as the message appeared as a bubble on the right side of the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no!” Quentin threw the phone down. “I meant to do that at a more casual time!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heather squinted at him. “What about 9:20 on a Monday isn’t casual?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh she just </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t get it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the planets aligned into the sign of an appending apocalypse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Quentin’s phone started </span>
  <em>
    <span>ringing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because someone was calling him!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when he flipped over the phone, Eliot’s name flashed up on the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who even called anyone anymore? Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>did that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well this is a sign, it’s never gonna work. He’s clearly a psychopath.” Quentin told Heather.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She physically picked up her legal pad and lightly whapped him on the knee with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Pick up the phone!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And because Quentin relied on the genius of the many women in his life, he did.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Somewhat Reformed Hedonist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for your warm response to this fic! Here's another chapter MUCH EARLIER than I expected as a reward!</p><p>Also I've edited the tags to reflect what's happening in the chapters I'm currently working on so be aware!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved</span>
  </em>
  <span> surprises. Certainly the </span>
  <em>
    <span>last</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing he’d expected from the sunny confines of his studio on a Monday morning, pencil in one hand, drafting paper spread out on his big fabric cutting table had been for Alexa to interrupt Lana Del Rey (Born to Die, naturally) on his Airpods to announce in her charming British accent that there was an incoming text from an unknown number.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>“</em>
  </b>
  <b>
    <em>Hey. This is Quentin, Margo gave me your number and I was wondering if you had time to talk about something for a book I’m writing?”</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, Eliot had to see that for </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot stuck the pencil behind his ear, a slight limp in his step as he walked to the small desk in the corner where he tried to keep his phone while he was working to lessen distraction and all that. His cane was leaning against the door to the studio, close by, but he didn’t need it at the moment. It was early enough in the day and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>boy</span>
  </em>
  <span> had texted him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yes, there it was on his lock screen, attached to a New Jersey area code was the text in all of it’s straight to the point glory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot smirked to himself. Quentin was never straight to the point. He mentally added several non-sequiturs to the message along with an ‘uh’, and finally a ‘you know’ until it sounded much more like a Quentin phrase.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, uh Eliot. This is Quentin--you know, Margo’s friend, Quentin. Anyway, I uh-- Margo gave me your number, but not for--I was wondering if you had time to talk about something for a book I’m writing? ...If you had time, that is.’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Charming through his babbling </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>was. Eliot couldn’t let him off that easily. Well, he supposed that in a very real context, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Eliot was a giver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Call him a sadist (he really wasn’t, except for in </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun</span>
  </em>
  <span> ways) but he couldn’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>text Quentin back</span>
  </em>
  <span>. No, if Quentin needed something he had to pay the piper, so to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all these years of run-ins with the awkwardness of one step forward, two steps back of it all--yeah, he needed to hear this for himself. He felt a little pursued, if he was honest, which was such a silly thought. It was just a text, nothing about it was anything but one acquaintance asking another for a favor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, even in his state of somewhat reform, he needed to get his meddling rocks off somehow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so Eliot did the most logical thing. He stepped out onto the fire escape of his workspace (it wouldn’t do to have the silks smell like smoke), lit himself a cigarette, and called Quentin back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It rang for a long time, long enough that Eliot could practically picture Quentin internally debating on picking up. Mmm, the tension was </span>
  <em>
    <span>delicious</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, total shocker. Quentin </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> pick up!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um--hi, Quentin Coldwater speaking.” his voice was hesitant. And why did Eliot find it endearing that Quentin picked up the phone like he was back in elementary school? All formal and yet still fumbling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quentin!” Eliot let his name roll off his tongue, he paused to take a drag. “It’s Eliot, returning your call. What does your heart desire? What can I do for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was probably relishing this a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bit</span>
  </em>
  <span> too much. But it wasn’t everyday that a boy like Quentin Coldwater came to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Quentin usually had to be pushed bodily into everything he did, complaining the whole way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, on the other end of the phone there were murmured voices like Quentin was covering the microphone on his phone, someone else in the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--yeah, okay I’ll see you next week!” Quentin’s voice faded in during the middle of his sentence. There was more clattering, “Just, hold on a sec--I was in the middle of something. A meeting. I was in a meeting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, so I’m important enough to leave a meeting for, huh?” Eliot asked, nonchalantly. He ashed his cigarette into a dead plant out on the ledge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What an asshole, really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh but it was just so</span>
  <em>
    <span> good</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be Eliot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not--” Quentin spluttered again. After ten seconds, the sustained sounds of Quentin’s feet on steps and then a door opening and closing, Eliot heard the comforting sounds of the street. “That’s not what I meant--anyway, how are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Always remembering his manners at the last second, that Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>peachy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Quentin.” Eliot said, his voice honey sweet. Provoking. “How about you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jesus, how many hazy nights had Eliot spent trying to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> reaction out of Quentin. Times when he came out looking glum, looking for the earliest opportunity to leave. Dark smudges under his eyes that matched Eliot’s, but for entirely different reasons. Sleepless nights of different circumstances. And now Eliot wanted to shake his head at how he’d cajoled and pranced for Quentin like some harlequin. But how it had been so sweet when Quentin had turned his head shyly away, biting down on the cocktail straw of his drink to hide the small smile on his lips at something ridiculous Eliot said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot wished he could see Quentin at this very moment, navigating foot traffic, waiting at the crosswalk for the signal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was so fucking pathetic how Eliot had been that flashing green ‘Walk’ sign beaconing Quentin for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So stupid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah--same.” Quentin answered, clipped. </span>
  <em>
    <span>There he was</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Anyway, sorry about all of that. Um, I’m working on something and I wanted to talk to you about--It’s just that I have this character who--I’m not explaining this correctly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot said nothing, content to let this play out in its entirety. He’d gotten to interact with Quentin so few times without Margo to give him the ‘Down boy!’ look that she was so fond of. Now that he was unchaperoned, all bets were off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin paused. Eliot heard him take a long, sustained breath. Score one for the nerd, he was getting better at that, stopping himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the gauzy, unreliable lens of his own memories, Eliot remembered how Quentin filled just about any moment of silence he could so he wouldn’t have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>live in it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. How he’d get a little loosened up after a couple drinks jumbling with whatever Quentin had taken for his anxiety right before going out. Going on and on and on about nothing, Eliot hanging off Margo like a handbag, transfixed by his cupid’s bow mouth and how Quentin’s Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he spoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was still </span>
  <em>
    <span>chatty</span>
  </em>
  <span> though somewhat more grounded now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need your help with a project if you would be willing to talk to me. That’s it.” Quentin said. “I would really appreciate your--expertise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot peered through the window into his workspace, full to the brim with its bolts of fabric, notions, and loud sewing equipment. “Alright, I can give you a hand, Coldwater. I’d be happy to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s--that would be helpful. Thank you.” Quentin replied. Eliot could practically hear the other man’s shoulders drop away from his ears. Boy was </span>
  <em>
    <span>tense</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Always had been. All over, in all of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>muscles</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down boy. No. Wrong train of thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’ll be in my workspace all day today, I’ll send you the address and we can talk shop. I can--show you the ropes, or whatever.” Eliot said, flicking his cigarette butt into the potted plant. It hadn’t offered him any joy during its short life, at least now it served </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>purpose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin audibly gulped on the other end of the phone. “Yeah, shop, ropes. Fine. I’ll see you later--I’m gonna, lunch and then--fine, can I bring you a coffee or anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lord</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just bring yourself and that brain of yours, Q. That’s enough.” Eliot told him firmly, ducking down to enter back into the room with practiced ease. His hip protested at the bending. “Congrats on the show BTW, Kylie’s a fan of the book, she tweeted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot rolled his eyes, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you later. Text me when you get here? Then I can call you immediately and we can have another awkward conversation until I come get you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fucking with you, Quentin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, okay.” Quentin said, and then much softer, “Thanks again, Eliot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot smiled, if only to himself in his chaotic workspace. “It’s my pleasure. See you soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he hung up the phone before Quentin dug himself any more holes to get out of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well wasn’t this an interesting turn of events?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a thing. It was absolutely positively </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>for Quentin to be calling him out of the blue and Eliot didn’t absently fan himself as he strolled across the workspace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was much too refined for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot clicked his heels together and set out to find his button box.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot bandied about his studio for the rest of the morning, into the early afternoon. He busied himself with drafting himself a new waistcoat from a well-loved pattern that just needed a bit of tweaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t that he’d gained </span>
  <em>
    <span>weight</span>
  </em>
  <span> persay, however it turned out that when one spent fewer of their nights dancing until the sun came up in an ecstasy fueled high, one filled out a bit more with muscle. Physical therapy had something to do with that as well water aerobics.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every grandmother who saw him still proclaimed Eliot skinny as a rail, mind you. But he didn’t look so much like each of his ribs were clamoring for attention. And that was okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, new waistcoats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which likely meant new pants, jackets, ties, and shoes so they didn’t feel left out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was making whatever he could from the remnants left over from various costuming jobs he’d done over the years. Brocade was making a comeback.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there was just the sheer number of things he owned that he could let the seams out on--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot was between major jobs right now, working on some commissions and alterations for old clients he couldn’t tell ‘no’. He needed to keep busy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things were better when Eliot was busy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The racks and racks of costumes he’d worked on the last six months were pushed against the back wall, waiting to be picked up by the production coordinator. A lot of it was just altering pieces he’d been able to track down online and in costume warehouses. He’d gotten to put together a few full costumes for the leads of the movie. There was a truly spectacular ball gown that took up half of one rack, from side to side the skirt was nearly six feet wide. It was a truly magnificent confection of smokey quartz raw silk under a sunny pink chiffon, resulting in an interesting dichotomy of light and dark depending on how they wanted to light the scene.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anyway, it was all for a silly independent period piece.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot fondly ran his hand over the long line of garment bags and hangers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was all well and good to execute someone else’s vision for how they wanted their movie or their musical to look, but honestly people could be such a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bore</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Eliot had it his way, he would have put every last damn man in a pastel frock coat and breeches. ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Not everyone is quite the Dandy, Eliot’</span>
  </em>
  <span> Yeah. He got it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned a fond eye to the wall where he kept all of his fabrics, it went up to the 20 foot ceiling with deep, deep shelves that went back six feet to the concrete wall of the loft space. There was even a ladder like he was a Damn Disney Princess. Sometimes he needed help getting bolts down on his bad days, but Kady down the hall was usually more than happy to force her boyfriend to put down his power tools to fetch things down for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For all that this room was pure organized chaos, it soothed him to be surrounded by so much beauty of his own making.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot checked the time, wondering if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> have had Quentin bring him a coffee for whatever this meeting they were having. He had a couple minutes, so Eliot went about pulling some of the fashion reference books he referred to most often as well as a few of his older portfolios for the hell of it. He threw them down on the cutting table, clearing enough space for the two men to sit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If they were going to talk about Eliot’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>expertise</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Quentin would probably want visual aids.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cheekily, Eliot pulled both stools at the table to sit next to each other as opposed to being on opposite sides of the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Look</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he was somewhat reformed, but he wasn’t a </span>
  <em>
    <span>saint</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wanted to keep Quentin close at hand for whatever this was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then right on time, Quentin texted;</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“</span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>outside.”</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Original.” Eliot muttered to himself. Leaving his cane behind, he walked to the door and down the long hall of other studios a bit stiffly. The weather was pleasant today but he hadn’t spent that much time sitting down and the concrete floor could be rough on his joints. This building had once been a factory until it had been converted into smaller work spaces. Eliot liked it well enough because it was cheap for the space and close to the Garment District so he could run out for anything that he needed. Eliot took the stairs at his usual cautious pace, throwing open the door to the outside to a perplexed, pale looking Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin in daylight. That was certainly a new experience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You found the place!” Eliot motioned the other man inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I didn’t think it was abandoned at all.” Quentin grumbled, tugging absently on that awful messenger bag he had over his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Honestly it was shocking that he didn’t walk crooked from always wearing that thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm, I do love a derelict building.” Eliot mused, motioning for Quentin to follow him. He resisted the urge to take the steps two at a time. He was a self-made showoff. Plus he actually wanted to be able to walk tomorrow. “Alas, this one is much more reputable than it appears on the outside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked down the hallway, Quentin’s head turning at the angle grinder going off in a studio down the hall against the sounds of a cello in the studio they’d just passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot motioned for Quentin to enter through the massive barn style door to the studio. The door was on a track in the ceiling and allowed for huge pieces of equipment to be moved in and out of the studios, or for grand entrances in Eliot’s case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, Quentin walked into the studio, the soles of his little boots tapping on the polished concrete of the floor. Eliot watched him mildly as he pulled the massive door closed with a flourish for no one. He resisted the urge to bodily remove Quentin’s worn black jacket if only so he could help him back into it when it came time to leave. Press his hands along the shoulder seams, wrap around and straighten the lapels, give that glossy hair of Quentin’s a good tousle if only he would take it </span>
  <em>
    <span>out</span>
  </em>
  <span> of that elastic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was always fascinating to watch someone else in this space, to see what they gravitated towards. Quentin went right for the fabric wall with its ladder. Classic Disney Princess Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is pretty cool.” Quentin said, looking up to the high ceilings though there was nothing that interesting about it at all. The floor to ceiling windows of the workroom cast the planes of his handsome face in golden light. It was beautiful here during magic hour and sunset. Sometimes Eliot would just sit and watch the pink wash of the sky reflected on the tables and floor. “I had no idea that you were so--</span>
  <em>
    <span>established</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I kinda pictured like a stuffy backroom with no light.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot suppressed a snort. “Yeah, that was my life for all of undergrad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t mention that he’d slept in the studio on the couch for the first few years he rented the workspace until he could afford an apartment as well. He’d showered at a gym down the block or at Margo’s. There had been a hot plate situation. Better for Quentin to see the glamorous side of this space. Honestly, Eliot hated that couch. It was lumpy and swallowed him whole when he sat down in it. It was nearly impossible to get out of when his hip was bothering him. He should get rid of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hadn’t been all that bad, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> given Eliot all the more reason to sleep in the beds of others, treat himself to what was in the fridge and take a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bath</span>
  </em>
  <span> every once in a while. Plus, work was always just a few steps away in the middle of the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot looked away from Quentin taking in this space. In all the times they’d spent together, it had always been at sterile, boring book parties, or in clubs or bars celebrating Margo’s various accomplishments. He’d never been around Quentin, just the two of them, especially in a place that Eliot was so fond of. This was as much his home as his apartment was, maybe even moreso.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus there was the whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>quietness</span>
  </em>
  <span> of this room. There weren’t other people clamoring to be heard or house music playing so loudly his teeth were chattering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole thing made Eliot weirdly nervous, bouncing on the balls of his feet for want of something to do and then regretting it seconds later. But Quentin seemed content to wander and explore. To put one foot up on the ladder and then think better of it, stepping down again. He walked up and down the long length of the room, running a cautious finger down the edge of his cutting table. He had such lovely hands. Strong and square. Quentin was probably a fast typer with those dexterous fingers of his. He was always shaking them out, getting rid of the tension from hours spent at a keyboard, Eliot guessed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin glanced at the end of the room where Eliot kept his cadre of mannequins, sewing machines, and his serger. He kept his distance. Good boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Quentin turned the corner on the end of the long table and they were both on the same side, glancing at each other about 10 feet apart. “So, about this book. Does this mean you have to thank me profusely in the acknowledgements?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin coughed roughly, his hands went back to wringing the strap of his bag between those lovely hands of his like he wanted to strangle it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, yes. If you want that. It can be arranged.” Quentin said. He leaned against the table, still standing far away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>See. This is why Eliot hadn’t been allowed to get close. Quentin was just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Too good and sweet for a big old mess like Eliot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Right</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Eliot said, setting himself down on one of the stools, nearly letting out a sigh as he took the pressure off of his leg. He hadn’t done a good job of staying off it this day, too much puttering around. Eliot patted the other stool. “Come have a seat, let’s get down to brass tacks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin looked like he would have rather walked across broken glass than cross the distance between them to sit beside Eliot. Still. He did it, eventually coming to sit on the other stool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, fire away and I’ll answer in excruciating detail to the best of my ability.” Eliot said, crossing one leg over the other. Then, thinking better of it when his hip loudly protested, he uncrossed his legs and instead elegantly draped his hands on one knee, the picture of expertise or whatever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin pulled out a small notebook and his phone, setting it to record a voice memo. Jesus, he was probably the kind of kid who recorded his own radio shows for fun on a tape deck back in the day. Okay, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot</span>
  </em>
  <span> had done that too, up in the hayloft on warm summer nights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally acting as though he wasn’t going to run at any second, Quentin took off his jacket and laid it on the table along with his bag. He wore a long-sleeved dark grey henley, the top two buttons undone like the sight of his chest hair wasn’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>criminally </span>
  </em>
  <span>distracting. Eliot observed the other man’s profile as he nervously flipped through his notebook until he found a blank page. Quentin had the beginnings of crows feet and fading freckles across the bridge of his nose from the past summer. His hair, as always, was making a valiant attempt at escaping its confines, a warm golden brown shot through with a few silver strands here and there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were all aging, as gracefully as they could. Eliot had spent his 30th birthday in a hospital bed which suited him just fine as he’d insist until the day he died that he was 27. For a long time Eliot thought that he wouldn’t live to see his late twenties, put his money where his mouth was to kinda stack the deck in that favor. Only, it turned out it was really hard to kill a bitch like Eliot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo would continue with her regime of skincare, subtle fillers, and botox so she would get carded into old age. She would likely die over the age 100, sandwiched between two male models 1/4th her age. The dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin eventually settled enough to pull Eliot out of his wistful daydreaming about more blazers with elbow patches and a rather elegant wicker wheelchair on a nice wraparound porch by the seaside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess we’ll start from the beginning.” Quentin said, taking a big breath like this was some deep personal question he was about to ask. “How did you get started?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Same as any little boy, I was seven and my cousin Cynthia’s Barbie needed a wedding dress.” Eliot answered, truthfully. Maybe he should try to paint his voice as a little more wistful if it was going to be recorded?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin spluttered, looking at Eliot like he’d just claimed to be the King of Norway. Or that he shopped at Abecrombie and Fitch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like he was kind of horrified and </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredibly </span>
  </em>
  <span>confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Quentin once again spluttered. Eliot wondered if he got like this with Margo and if he had an on/off switch that Eliot could wiggle to reboot his system.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did I get started in fashion?” Eliot said slowly, as though speaking to a child, or  Quentin in this moment. “I was seven and there was a Barbie wedding emergency.” He left out the part where his father found them in the basement and the screaming. That shit didn’t need to be recorded fucking anywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin smiled, tightlipped in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. He firmly closed his notebook and spread both of his hands on the table. “Fuck, I forgot the middle part to this whole thing, didn’t I? I think this actually--this was a mistake. I can-- I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your hair here. I’m sure you have work to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot watched him unravel for all of ten seconds, packing up his things before he jumped off the stool and tried to make a break for it, only then did his reflexes kick into gear. He snatched Quentin’s passing wrist with his own hand, his long fingers easily encircling the other man’s wrist. Skin on skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pretty pink flush painted itself across Quentin’s cheeks. Oh, but he was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>lovely</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What a dangerous thought. Especially when Quentin looked down at Eliot holding onto him and then met Eliot’s gaze with his warm, liquid brown eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Q, I don’t get the panic here. Whatever it is, just ask me okay?” Eliot said, holding onto the other man despite Quentin’s half hearted attempts to break free from his hold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot knew enough about this, how Quentin got panicky and ran sometimes. How he’d slip away during parties in his own honor to be off on his own in another room. He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin to slip away before Eliot could find out what was wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin looked once again at Eliot’s hand on his wrist, right at the place where the downy hair on his arms started. He wrenched his eyes away, looking up at the ceiling, really anywhere but at Eliot. And that just made him want to comfort Quentin, who was clearly having some kind of struggle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He liked the needy ones, maybe that made </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> needy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to base a character off of me but you're worried you would ruin all of your readers for other men besides me? Is that it? Legions of book clubs and gays pounding down your door with torches and pitchforks because they can’t have me?” Eliot tried again, this time attempting to make Quentin at least laugh a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miserably, Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose with his other hand, the one that Eliot wasn’t holding. “No--ah, not quite. Okay. I’m gonna just be direct. Just gonna jump right into it.” He said, not jumping into it. “I’m writing--well, I want to write this new book. And I’ve done a bunch of research about one of the major aspects of the plot, but there’s really only so much that books and weird podcasts can really offer in the way of potential character motivation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot was beginning to get the idea that this book was decidedly </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> about fashion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wow. Quentin was getting redder and redder. It was impressive honestly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vaguely Eliot wondered how far that blush extended.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not the time!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, the book,” Quentin stopped dead, took a big breath with his eyes closed and blurted, “Okay it’s about BDSM and because I for the life of me </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot </span>
  </em>
  <span>talk to Margo about her impressive personal sex room, I’m here to talk to you about it. Not Margo’s Red Room, but about you and um, and about BDSM. About how your-- ah, I need to ask you about what it’s like being a dom--doing that </span>
  <em>
    <span>stuff</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every pin on the planet could have dropped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Eliot had wished on every fucking star in the sky, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> wouldn’t believe himself to be lucky enough for this boy to here, asking this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What a ridiculous boy. Eliot had to keep him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing could be done except to pull Quentin bodily into a hug before he nervously shot out of the room and orbited the earth like a satellite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot engaged in his own little rebellions all the time. His fondness for being tactile flew in the face of everything he’d been taught as a child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he pulled Quentin in, reeled him in by that hand around his wrist and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>held</span>
  </em>
  <span> him there against Eliot’s broad chest. He was still sitting on his stool, Quentin stood in the V between Eliot’s long legs, his hips butting up against the inside of Eliot’s thighs. Quentin sucked in one massive, wavering breath, held it for several agonizing seconds and then positively melted against him. Eliot had no way of knowing if it was voluntary or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How long had it been since someone had </span>
  <em>
    <span>hugged</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin? Held him? Soothed him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo was a fabulous friend but her brand of care was sometimes abrasive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s arms were struggling between their bodies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he let his wrist go, he was shocked that Quentin wrapped his </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> arms around Eliot. The kid was full of surprises. Always had been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot did the big hugging thing, rubbed Quentin’s back and rested his chin on the crown of Quentin's head. He wasn’t great about talking about his feelings, but this he could do. He could let his body talk for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honey, if you wanted a hug, there are easier ways to go about it.” Eliot still had to give him a bit of shit for this whole situation. Quentin’s body was solid, shaking a bit under his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re such an</span>
  <em>
    <span> asshole</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Quentin said into Eliot’s tie, muffled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Eliot agreed. “It’s a brand thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled Quentin away, holding him at arm's length. He looked a bit blotchy but otherwise unharmed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna get you a water.” Eliot told him firmly, “Stay here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin looked around, a bit alarmed. Given the things that Quentin knew about Eliot’s extracurricular activities, maybe he shouldn't be ordering Quentin around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if now he kinda wanted to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or don’t.” Eliot said, keeping Quentin in the corner of his eye as he staggered to the mini-fridge in the corner. “It wasn’t a command.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin made a strange grumble-squeak, shaking out his hands as though he had a cramp. He did that a lot when he was nervous. But still, he sat back down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot returned with two bottles of water and a box of marzipan someone had gifted him a few months back. A bit of sugar and some hydration were great in nearly every situation, Eliot had found over the years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin accepted the water and a piece of marzipan shaped like a peach from the box. Eliot did the same, cracking open his own water and biting into the firm, almondy texture of his own marzipan. Eliot couldn’t help but notice that Quentin’s hands were shaking a bit, that he kept shooting furtive glances over at Eliot while they sat in the silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You like doing this.” Quentin said, finally. “You like taking care of people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>People. Not just men. Eliot liked that Quentin didn’t try to pin anyone down to any specific preference. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been mostly men. Mostly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin though, he was all just soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>boy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Anyone who looked at him on the street would just see some hetero white guy in his hoodie and beat up sneakers. Eliot knew better. Knew that Quentin was a caring, feminist, </span>
  <em>
    <span>queer</span>
  </em>
  <span> boy who wrote books full of characters who were similar shades of that ideal, trying to fill up the world with people like him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted to wrap Quentin up and stick him in his pocket, he was such a fucking softie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot nodded, just once up and down. He rubbed his hands together, shaking away any of the lingering sugar there. “Yes, very much so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would Quentin’s fingers still taste sweet if Eliot tasted them right now? Likely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seriously, Eliot was usually much better at focusing. But everything was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>harder</span>
  </em>
  <span> with Quentin. Get it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do that when you’re--when you’re--” Quentin said, though he seemed to get himself stuck in the phrasing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was best to be direct with Quentin, give him the facts and let him sort it out for himself since he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>clearly</span>
  </em>
  <span> struggling to articulate his own thoughts and feelings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, Eliot was a guy who had </span>
  <em>
    <span>vast </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>varied</span>
  </em>
  <span> experience getting people to talk about things they’d only ever thought to themselves or whispered shyly to some vanilla partner who had blanched. It was practically on his resume. There were outliers of course, bold souls who marched up to Eliot and told him exactly how they wanted him to take them. Rare but it happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That wasn’t Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Quentin. I take care of the people I scene and play with. It’s the most important aspect of what I do. I try to leave everyone better than I found them.” Eliot said. Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he didn’t have enough time to get into specifics about. Everyone’s needs were different. Quentin seemed content to stare down at his hands while Eliot spoke. His fingertips dusted with sugar. “I like it. I get off on it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin gulped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not really what I expected when I started doing my research, um, but it was a theme throughout-- in my, in the books? With the incredible amount of trust on either side of the relationship, I would imagine that the--I mean, it seems like in some dom/sub relationships that the caretaking is more, um--” Quentin was babbling, once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s what some people are after, yes. Some people really do like the pain and get off on it. Others want to surrender control, face consequences for their actions, maybe be punished for rule breaking.” Eliot said, shrugging. “It probably isn’t a surprise that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> not a huge rule-maker disciplinarian. And I can’t--I would never inflict any pain on someone unless it also brought them pleasure. There are way more creative ways to punish, they tend to be more </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Well, fun for me. But that, that’s the hard limit with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the big one. And for some people it was a dealbreaker. Eliot wasn’t the kind of dom who disciplined with pain or brought it to the party without it’s best friend ‘pleasure’. There was nothing wrong with people who wanted that, it just wasn’t for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin turned glassy eyes on him for a brief moment. “That’s um--wow. Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That pink flush was still painted on the apples of his cheeks. Quentin could have been a big fat baby with wings in a renaissance painting. Or rather, one of those tragically hot saints swathed in gauzy silks, all stuck through with arrows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you’ve noticed but I don’t exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>date</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I go on dates occasionally but Margo’s been the great love of my life.” He wouldn’t go into the hookups. “So I’ve scened with my fair share of people off and on, but it’s never been exclusive with anyone.” Eliot said, probably opening up more to Quentin than was safe for his own heart, but he still looked so </span>
  <em>
    <span>stricken</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Was stricken the word? Troubled? Anxious? Yes, always but this was different. So Eliot explained as plainly as he could. “I suppose this is my way of packing all the emotional intimacy I can into neat little sessions, leaving me free to flounce through the rest of my life with nary a care in the world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin let out a small snort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d be happy to tell you more about this,” Eliot said. He couldn’t resist the urge to reach over and touch Quentin’s hand where it rested on the table, twitchy. Quentin’s hand was smaller under his own, cooler to the touch than he’d expected. His palms were probably a bit clammy, though Eliot couldn’t know for sure. “If you want collect your thoughts and come back another day, you ask me anything--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot had been prepared to pack up Quentin and see that he got himself together enough to get home. To tell him to take time to think about what he really wanted from Eliot as far as this interview for his book because it was pretty clear that wasn’t going to happen today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was being noble, Eliot thought to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, Quentin stood up like he’d been fired out of a cannon. Before Eliot really could react or commit any of it to memory in detail; Quentin kissed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin with his hunched shoulders and his liquid eyes stood, once again between his legs, took Eliot’s face between his own (yes, somewhat clammy) hands and pressed his lips to Eliot’s. It was such a quick, frantic thing. There and then gone. Hardly enough time for Eliot to do anything other than grasp Quentin by his upper arms as the other man pulled hurriedly away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Do that to me.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin said in a rush. Oh but his puppy dog eyes were working to full effect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot blinked dumbly at him, somehow left utterly defenseless by a simple kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he caught up to the situation, Quentin’s words.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thump</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thump</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thump</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Went Eliot’s heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, well, well.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Went Eliot’s dick.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit. Shit. Shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Went Eliot’s brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pardon?” Eliot said, dumbly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin opened and closed his mouth. “I said ‘Do that to me. All of it.’” Quentin repeated, this time slightly slower. Brave boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot had to stop here, take a moment, do this right. This was Quentin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quentin</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Quentin who had panic attacks (he’d never </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen </span>
  </em>
  <span>one but he’d seen Margo hurry him out of a room and into a cab more than once) and tended to wear his heart on his ill-fitting sleeve. Quentin who he knew could be hurt so easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now he was just going around telling Eliot to dominate him like that wasn’t going to detonate something at the core of Eliot’s being?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was all just really unfair and messy. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>kinda bossy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, Eliot loved messy things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was pretty fucking thrilling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want that?” Eliot asked, ducking his head slightly to look the other man directly in the eye. Quentin held his gaze for about a second, looking away. Well, that wouldn’t do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Quentin said, biting his lower lip. The tips of his fingers were resting on Eliot’s knees, dragging there absently. “I want it. That..”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These were the kind of little touches people went on about in Pride and Prejudice (The Firth one, Obviously), the brush of hands standing side by side in a crowded ballroom and all that bullshit. Little fleeting things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot took a breath against the heat rising within him. He had to play this the right way. He had to really </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> it was what Quentin wanted and not just a flashing, impulsive idea in the other man’s head. He didn’t want to hurt Quentin, damage this incredibly fragile bond between them. Because yes, Quentin was more resilient than people gave him credit for, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be to share his stories with the world, but Quentin was also tough on himself. And causing Quentin that pain, even by proxy--well, Eliot couldn’t be a part of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Eliot sat up straight on his stool, his posture perfection. Even sitting with Quentin standing between his legs (ignoring the vague ache in his left leg from the stretch in his hip flexors), Eliot had a few inches on him. And so he used that little bit of height to his advantage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d give Quentin a taste. Just a taste. He told himself it was more for Quentin’s benefit than his own. But Eliot was a selfish man. He couldn’t really deny that he wanted to see Quentin’s reaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want what, exactly?” Eliot asked, his voice a warm, low thing. He reached over and cupped Quentin’s cheek, gently guided his face until Quentin really couldn’t get away with looking away. The flush of blood right below his skin warmed Eliot’s palm, the light scratch of his stubble tickled the heel of his hand. “Tell me what it is you want me to do to you, Quentin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin coiled with tension as he breathed in with a hiss. Eliot felt the other man’s jaw tense under his hand. He looked first scared and then confused in a flash. “I uh--I told you. I want you to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> to me. What you said that you do...to people.” His lower lip trembled like it just </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> what Eliot wanted to do to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. So Quentin was one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was going to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>joy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good,” Eliot said, encouraging him. He’d need to coax Quentin here, be firm but praising. “But I need the real words, I want you to tell me what you want me to do. Specifically. In your own words.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin blinked rapidly, shaking his head weakly in Eliot’s grasp. “--but. I, um. I don’t really </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot nodded kindly. He kept his voice low, just for the two of them in the cavern of his loft workspace. “That’s okay. You’re a smart man, Quentin. I think you can find the words. You’re good with words.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other man nodded weakly, absently to himself at what Eliot had said. If this all worked out, Eliot would absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>shower </span>
  </em>
  <span>him in praise at every opportunity. He’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>flourish</span>
  </em>
  <span> under it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin drew himself up to his full height, leaping to life before Eliot in a flash, “I uh--I don’t see why you’re being so difficult about this, Eliot.” he snapped, still red-faced and tense, trying for resolve.  Eliot only smiled wider. “You know.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quieter</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You know.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he thought he could be a bit of a brat to get his way? Eliot could roll with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I do.” Eliot said, “I know what </span>
  <em>
    <span>I think</span>
  </em>
  <span> that means. It could mean something totally different to you, Quentin. So I want to hear what </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> want. Specifically.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook out of his hold, staggering back a few paces. Though, Eliot was happy to see that he made no move to gather his things and flee again. Instead he was standing there, several feet away from Eliot, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Angry. So charming. Messy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you’re turning me down!” Quentin exclaimed, his hands going to those narrow hips of his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh how Eliot grew fonder and fonder of this man with every moment that passed. Preposterous little thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot held up a single finger. “Now, that’s not at all what I said, Q. And I think you understand that. This is part of what I do, we do. We have to talk about limits and desires. It’s what keeps each of us safe. If you can’t do this part, we can’t move forward. I expect more from you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo was wrong, Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> be firm and put his foot down when he wanted to, when the situation called for it. She acted as though he was a total pushover all the time. Which, yes, it was kind of fair. But it was just so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun</span>
  </em>
  <span> to see how Quentin would react to this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I think that’s stupid.” Quentin snapped. “I don’t see why you can’t just--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh I can.” Eliot jumped in, cutting him off. Going for the gold now. “I can make you feel things you’ve only ever written and dreamed about. And you’d love every millisecond of it, I can tell. You’d just open up like a flower to fucking sun for me. But I won’t do it, not until I know what </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> want. Until you tell me. And I can be a patient man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin stamped his foot. Like actually stamped his foot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovely. This was going to live in a loop in his brain for years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not easy for me, you know that.” Quentin was getting embarrassed now that pulling an attitude hadn’t gotten him anywhere. Realizing that if they were gonna do this, that Eliot would be the one in charge. That’s what Quentin was asking for. But he didn’t get the other part of this dynamic--Quentin had power here, more power than Eliot, he just didn’t know how to harness it yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just needed the tiniest push. Eliot could be pushy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot stood up, bracing himself on the table with a hand as his leg took his weight again. Cautiously, he crossed the distance between them again, giving Quentin time to bolt. Which could be its own kind of game, but they hadn't discussed that kind of thing, yet. When he didn’t flee, Eliot crowded him against the table, his arms caging Quentin in on either side of his body. Quentin let him, his compact body practically vibrating out of his skin. He was hard. They both were.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How long had it been since one kiss and a few words had left Eliot this aroused? Years? Never?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Eliot dipped his head to speak directly into Quentin’s ear. He felt the silky strands of the other man’s hair against his nose and cheek, lighting him up from the inside. “I know that, sweetheart. I know it’s not easy. Which is why I’ll be so </span>
  <em>
    <span>proud</span>
  </em>
  <span> when you find the words--when you tell me what you want me to do to you. You’re already being so good for me, so brave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was a broken sigh of a thing. Eliot felt the brush of air against the side of his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So this is what you’re going to do. Are you listening?” Eliot asked, in that quiet, commanding voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good boy.” Eliot took a risk there, but Quentin’s shiver at the words were confirmation enough that now that endearment was in play. Excellent. “You’re gonna go home now, take however long you need to think about what you want. When you can say it out loud, I want you to call me and tell me all about it.” Eliot said, making his expectations clear, to the point. “Then we’ll see about making that a reality.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t resist the urge to kiss the tender skin right below Quentin’s ear in parting. So he did just that. Quentin owed him that one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shuddered, his knees seemed like they were about to buckle. His hands reflexively reached for Eliot’s waist to steady himself. Eliot knew the feeling. They stood there for a beat. Eliot tried to burn the feeling of Quentin’s strong hands through the stupid layers of his own clothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Eliot stepped away, releasing Quentin from his orbit. The other man looked at him for a long moment, then drew himself up to full height again. “I’ll--yes. Okay. I’ll call. Just don’t hold your breath. It could be um, a while?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot nodded. He turned away from Quentin. Let him collect himself while Eliot busied himself by flipping absently through one of his books on the table. Playacting nonchalance. After a minute of soft movement, Quentin was in his jacket, firmly buttoned from top to bottom to hide the evidence of Eliot’s effect on him. There was really no hiding that could be done for Eliot, plus this was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> space. And it was a surprise to absolutely no one that Eliot was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>shameless</span>
  </em>
  <span> motherfucker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin gave him an awkward wave on his way out the door, wrenching the huge thing open with the help of his sweet little biceps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Q!” Eliot called out to Quentin before he could close the door behind himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin stopped, looking chagrined. “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot rolled his eyes to himself, “Just--just text me when you get home, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Quentin agreed, a little bashfully. He knocked softly twice against the metal door once he’d pulled it shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot reached for his cigarette case resting on the table. One couldn’t hurt the fabrics </span>
  <em>
    <span>too much.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He really just did </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> surprises.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin texted when he got back to his apartment,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <b>Home safe, Q.”</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot had a long conversation with Margo that night via Facetime from the tub. Ensconced in warm water of his bathtub and the bergamot/lavender/CBD bath oils that Margo had brought him from Los Angeles the last time she went to go visit her family, Eliot was just pleasantly mellow enough to deal with this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the fucking problem, El?” Margo’s voice echoed through his bathroom. Eliot had one of those little bath caddies that stretched across the tub for reading books and resting mugs of tea. Eliot had his phone propped up in the stand and a chilled glass of prosecco in the cup holder. On the little screen of his phone, Margo was similarly in her own tub, the tops of her breasts buoyant among the bubbles. “I can’t believe you didn’t put him on his knees right then and there, we both know he’s needed it for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But that had been just a private thing that he and Margo would shout about in her apartment whenever it came up. He’d clocked Quentin as the kind of guy who liked a bit of manhandling from jump. Later, he had better language for what that meant for </span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span> of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The problem, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Margo, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is that I was completely blindsided! I thought he wanted to talk to me about my job for his new book, and being completely fashion inept, he went to an expert.” Eliot waved a hand, ripples went through the water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What can I say, a bitch loves to see men squirm?” Margo shrugged, not looking at all guilty. Minx.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I was right. I couldn’t risk that i’d do something he didn’t want--have him run away to overanalyze and pick himself apart about it for </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the rest of his life?” Eliot said. He took a nice long sip of his drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the bottle was sitting on ice by the side of the tub.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was gonna be a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. You’re the good </span>
  <em>
    <span>considerate</span>
  </em>
  <span> dom and I’m the heartless sadist who would have taken it out on his ass years ago if it weren’t for the fact that he’s like my brother.” Margo said, the sounds of splashing bathwater came through on her end of the line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn straight.” Eliot held up his glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm,” Margo practically purred, “We should do that again, the double act? It’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>far</span>
  </em>
  <span> too long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s eyebrows rose at the thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’d have a heart attack. No more books for the world. No more paycheck for you, Bambi. Very sad all around.” Eliot told her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo waved a hand, “Don’t be so sure about that. Quentin’s not your virginal little waif. He’s got a really filthy mind, El. Like </span>
  <em>
    <span>really. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I rubbed it out about half a dozen times to his first submission--pun intended--to the publisher before I contacted him. Quentin’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>creative</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t a big reader. It took too long, and sometimes the words--jumbled. Some of Quentin’s books clocked in around 400 pages. No thank you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s this scene in a tree from book three of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clockwork Chronicles</span>
  </em>
  <span> I think--” Margo said, a glassy look crossed her face. “In a fucking tree, it shouldn’t be hot. But alas, they’re in a fucking tree and they have to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>quiet,</span>
  </em>
  <span> so quiet because of the--well I don’t remember which assholes were after them--but regardless, they’re up in this tree and Ciaran can’t keep his big mouth shut. So Sebastian takes his fucking dagger out and makes him fucking hold it between his teeth while he gives him a handjob, in the tree. I cannot reiterate enough that they’re in a tree!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought Quentin wrote books about the One-Ring, fantasy bullshit. Just with allusions to manhood all the time.” Eliot spluttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Margo said with an intense nod, “They’re just fucking chockablock fucking full of fucking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh.” Eliot muttered, mostly to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Q’s got a real way with words,” Margo said fondly. “I snatched him up before anyone could tell him to tone it down. I told him to amp it the fuck up. Middle America loves to be titillated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That they do.” Eliot drained the rest of his glass, reaching over the edge of the bath for a refill. “You really should have seen him Margo. It was very--” he searched for the right word. “sweet. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweet</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And then he tried to go all demandy on me. Total brat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh I love it when he does that.” Margo said. “All pink-cheeked and outraged. What a puppy. Mmm, I bet he’s a crier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both sat there in the wake of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> speculation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So does this mean you think I’m finally worthy of Quentin Fucking Coldwater? After all these years?” Eliot finally asked her, direct and clear headed despite the floaty feeling in the rest of his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I maintain that I saved you both years of ‘Will they? Won’t they.’ horseshit. Running around each other and then mooning to me over and over again about tiny looks and </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Oh Margo he touched my elbow!’</span>
  </em>
  <span> nonsense.” She said, reaching off-camera for a loofah. “You’re both reasonably adjusted adults now. You’re older. You’re wiser. You both have your houses in some semblance of order. Now go off and fuck each other's brains out. Just let me watch every once and awhile as a ‘Thank You.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was probably true, except Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> mooned to Margo about Quentin, repeatedly. For years. He guessed they weren’t mentioning that anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fine with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he changed the subject completely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, so tell me more about this tree scene.” Eliot said after a beat of silence while Margo sloughed the dead skin from her limbs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Which one?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next day was a bad one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>New York did that thing where she decided to plunge the city into a misty, overcast and chilly day out of nowhere. Eliot spent the day holed up in bed switching between icing his leg and using the heating pad. He sketched absently on his iPad, trying to keep his mind off it. Around lunch Eliot could actually get past the shooting pain radiating up and down his left leg enough to stretch out on the ground with his foam roller.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he kinda had to stay there for a bit, staring up at his ceiling until he could get up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot used to take Vicodin for so much as a stubbed toe, he hadn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>known</span>
  </em>
  <span> real pain back then. At least not physical pain. There’d been a fuck ton of emotional bullshit to weight through. He laughed to himself at the blissful stupidity of youth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It turned out that nothing made your best friend-soulmate-sometimes lover get </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> about silly things like drug addiction </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> like almost actually dying. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Even when it wasn’t even his fault!</span>
  </em>
  <span> And thus Margo had gone </span>
  <em>
    <span>Full Margo The Destroyer</span>
  </em>
  <span> on his pain management plan along with his doctor. Eliot got it now, on the other side of things as he had far more good days than bad days. It had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span> there for a while. Fucking awful honestly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> so badly to drift down the seductive path of little white pills that took it all away until he wasn’t himself anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Margo hadn’t let him and he’d hated her for it for longer than she deserved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So far though, Eliot had been really good. He managed in his own ways. Baths helped. Weed was great. He got fucking acupuncture done. Occasionally, yes, he took something that wasn’t over the counter for the pain. But the bottle it came out of had his name on it, which was the difference. And the bottle lived at Margo’s. And it was hidden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>far too easy</span>
  </em>
  <span> to just call up one of the many (many) numbers in his phone from those days in his early twenties, hit them up for a fix if he wanted to. Then he thought that a lot of those numbers had probably been disconnected from lack of payment or worse. That made him melancholy enough to stick to his coping mechanisms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus, when had Eliot ever done anything the easy way?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being in a scene, working with a sub had certainly helped him regain some form of control over his life again and the casual domming he’d done throughout his twenties had become something he took much more seriously. He’d never </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span> anyone back then, but Eliot knew now he’d been chasing the high of </span>
  <em>
    <span>more, faster, harder</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Just like he’d chased so many highs. Now that the whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>more, faster, harder</span>
  </em>
  <span> was much more dependent on what his body was capable of at any given moment, Eliot had grown to realize that breaking someone down to base need and then bringing them back up was a much more </span>
  <em>
    <span>fulfilling</span>
  </em>
  <span> experience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo had been the one to help him realize that. She’d built him back up, as she had over and over again throughout their friendship. This time there was just more leather involved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those double acts back in the days during his recovery when all he could do was sit, watch, and suggest while Margo wove both of their desires together into a beautiful work of art. Sighs, groans, and slurred words the soundtrack to their design. It had been then, in those hours of engaging his brain and not his body that Eliot had grown into his own kind of man, his own kind of dom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kind that apparently Quentin wanted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin wanted, then Eliot could do that. He’d resign himself to whatever he could get, as he always had. He’d shine up the memories of having Quentin under his hands on a daily basis, keep them as fresh as they’d been when they were moments old.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so it was, on a dreary Tuesday afternoon while Eliot was feeling melancholy in his silk kimono at the kitchen counter that his phone pinged with an email. Contrary to popular belief about Eliot Waugh, he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> good about checking his notifications. He was just apathetic when it came to responding if the mood didn’t move him to do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an email from Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was fucking moved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot didn’t even bother to wonder how Quentin had gotten his email address Re: Margo. There, nestled in his Gmail right along with price alerts for flights to Paris and Ebay auction updates was an email from one Quentin Coldwater.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot stood at his kitchen counter. He took his time, not wanting to skim a single word, reading:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Eliot, I wanted to thank you for your kindness yesterday. That didn’t go nearly as terribly as it could have. :)  Anyway, I was a bit of a basketcase, which is something I’m not supposed to say about myself, but we’re all works in progress, </span>
  </em>
  <span>right</span>
  <em>
    <span>?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Despite my best efforts, I cannot stop thinking about what you asked me to do. And the truth of the matter is that this; writing has always been an easier way for me to express myself than talking. I stumble over myself. I get worked up. You may have noticed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>No.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I’m sure you noticed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve taken time to think about what I want, what I </span>
  </em>
  <span>really want</span>
  <em>
    <span> from you. And one day I may even work up the courage to speak it out loud. But I’m trying my hand at being brave, so what’s the worst that could happen?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is what I would have told you yesterday had I been braver:</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want you to make me feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>good</span>
  <em>
    <span>. Really good. Like, unspeakably good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to be good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>For you</span>
  <em>
    <span>. I want to be good for you, however you want. I feel like that goes against the point of this, but you said BDSM was about expectations and desires on both sides of the equation. So I want to know what you want me to be and what you want me to do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to do that, follow your orders or your whatever you want to call them, because I do trust you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot</span>
  <em>
    <span>. I would be a liar if I said it didn’t really turn me on just thinking about it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to meet and exceed your expectations, shocked the whole way long. I want to be a good boy, for you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want you to take care of me again. Like you did yesterday. Make sure I’m okay before you send me on my way home. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But I also want you to take care of me with your body; with your mouth, your dick, and those amazing hands of yours. That seems like a big given. But now it’s in writing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to make you feel good too. I want you to teach me how.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want a great many things but I think they boil down to this one: </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to submit to you, Eliot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So that’s what I want. For now, now that I’ve had the time to think about it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I feel as though I’ve broken some rule telling you in this way. I was supposed to call. Except, you were the one who told me that you weren't exactly all that fond of rules yourself. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I like rules. Rules make it easy to know when you’ve stepped out of line. They’re comforting.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So I guess this is me telling you, I think I would like it if you gave me some rules to follow, in the future too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will call, hopefully soon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In the meantime I wanted you to know that I am thinking of you, fondly. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You were certainly a surprise yesterday.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You make me want to like surprises.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Best,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Q.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>P.S. Please don’t tell Margo about this. I have to work with her and she gets so weird about sex stuff with me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot had to go lay down again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next day was better, much better. The sun was shining, Eliot’s hair was glossy from a protein treatment, birds were tweeting their asses off, and somewhere in the Boroughs, Quentin Coldwater was working up the courage to call Eliot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was another two days until Quentin called.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot was practically giddy as he picked up the phone, heedless of the fact that he was at fucking Whole Foods. Bitches needed to get with the picture that sex was a perfectly healthy thing, especially when done with a guy like Eliot Waugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so, among the organic green juices and bee pollen, Eliot answered the phone.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading! I love chatting with you all in the comments! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Doing the Brave Thing (Part 1)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>FYI this is a two-part chapter since it clocked in at around 16,000 words and that's just NUTS. Thank you all for your awesome and kind response to my work!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Surprisingly, Quentin did <em> not </em> use any of Heather’s guidance on what he needed to say to Eliot over the phone.</p><p>It would have been a completely inappropriate use of his therapeutic hour. Even more so than the two weeks he’d spent bashfully discussing it so much that Heather had told him, point blank, <em>‘it’s a perfectly, healthy desire, Quentin. If you’d like a referral to a sex therapist--’ </em></p><p>Besides that fact, Quentin was trying his hand at that bravery thing. It <em> had </em> taken him some time to sort out his jumble of feelings, get over the twisty worries he had about Eliot. That Eliot didn’t also want Quentin like that. But that wasn’t Eliot. Eliot had his pick of anyone, literally anyone. If he hadn’t <em> also </em> been attracted to Quentin, he wouldn’t have sent Quentin away with homework.</p><p>Dirty, dirty, homework.</p><p>So Quentin had spent that night feeding the Catwins and then wandering his own apartment for long after midnight like Mr. Rochester’s first wife up in a tower. Seriously, all he’d needed was a candelabra.</p><p>Eventually he’d gone to his desk and just typed it all out. In writing he could organize his thoughts and revise them, safe in the comfort that he wouldn’t be interrupted in the one-sided conversation. It was fine, he felt relatively put together having sent the email--</p><p>That had been <em> blown out of the fucking water </em> when Eliot’s reply had come through via text, ten minutes later.</p><p>“<b>Good boy. -e”</b></p><p>And that had just about taken the rest of the afternoon to recover from.</p><p>Jesus, by the time that Eliot actually <em> touched </em>him again, Quentin might just explode into a billion atoms.</p><p>Following that fucking leap of faith, Quentin really did try to get work done. He wrote for a few hours each day, but nothing really jumped out at him. He did more research into death practices around the world because it turned out to be a pretty fascinating subject.</p><p>When Friday rolled around, Quentin woke around 7 a.m. because that was a thing his body did naturally now the older he got? What the hell was that about?</p><p>He got dressed (the urge to linger in pajamas was too much, better to rip the bandaid off and just change into jeans), made some coffee, and dug into the handy little square of breakfast casserole waiting in the fridge on the bottom shelf with the rest of the containers of food. Quentin dicked around on his phone a while, checking his email for anything Fen had forwarded to him.</p><p>It was then that he realized <em> fucking Fen </em> had access to his emails, particularly the one he’d sent Eliot nestled neatly there in his sent folder. Because Quentin hadn’t thought to send it via his old school email that he held onto for some weird reason.</p><p>He quickly fired off a text to her, telling her in no uncertain terms that she’d earned a raise if she kept what she’d read to herself until her dying day.</p><p>
  <b>“Sure thing, boss. my lips are sealed! ;)”</b>
</p><p>Quentin made a mental note to call his accountant, but then realized that Fen was the one who did that sort of thing, so he made another mental note to have Fen put in for her own raise.</p><p>Sitting there, his stomach uncoiling from the knots of tension that had ratcheted up inside him within seconds of the realization, Quentin was left <em> tired </em>. Just plain exhausted. Those big swings in his mood did that sometimes.</p><p>But this was a learning opportunity, wasn’t it?</p><p>Something not great had happened--Quentin had subjected his virtual assistant to what he would classify his <em> longest </em> and <em> first </em> sext. Ever.</p><p>And nothing bad had happened!</p><p>Fen worked with a bunch of other writers, there had to be some freaks. Quentin didn’t even <em> want </em> to know the kinds of things that Margo’s assistant had seen and heard over the years. Sometimes Todd just got the most glassy look in his huge brown eyes, like he was reliving it.</p><p>Left there in the aftermath, his breakfast half eaten and now looking not particularly appetizing, Quentin gathered his bag and his jacket. He locked up on his way out, in search of better coffee and absolutely no company at the coffee shop.</p><p>It was there, on the walk to the coffee shop that Quentin realized it was probably time. Like what was even the point of waiting if all it meant was he kept postponing this scary <em> weird </em> exciting thing that could be happening. </p><p>Everyone in the neighborhood had already left for work, it seemed. It was just Quentin and the occasional passing car on a breezy September morning.</p><p>So he called Eliot, somewhat hoping that Eliot’s phone had been lost in some elegant accident involving a yacht somewhere.</p><p>But Quentin wasn’t that lucky.</p><p>Eliot picked up on the third ring. The bastard.</p><p>“Um- hi, Eliot Waugh speaking?” Eliot picked up the phone, pitching his voice into a nearly perfect impression of Quentin’s own greeting from four days ago.</p><p>Quentin heaved a big sigh, making his feelings known.</p><p>“Okay, I’m sorry. I apologize from the bottom of my cold little heart, Quentin.” Eliot said in that sweet voice he’d used before.</p><p>
  <em> I’m fucking peachy, Quentin. </em>
</p><p>“Look, i’m just gonna fucking say it!” Quentin exclaimed in lieu of greeting, his voice raising embarrassingly, swinging into a higher pitch before he could really stop himself.</p><p>“I’m all ears.” Eliot replied, cooly.</p><p>Quentin did a full 360 turn to ensure he was as reasonably alone as he could be in Brooklyn. If he did this quickly, he’d have it out of the way before the jogger who’d just turned the corner he was walking towards would get within earshot.</p><p>“I want what I wrote.” Quentin said, trying to keep himself as controlled as he could given his recent outburst about ten seconds ago. “I want all of it. I’m not gonna read it back to you since this isn’t some performance art piece. But the thesis statement is this: I want to submit to you, Eliot. I want that. And the rest of it. Is that specific enough for you?”</p><p>Eliot’s chuckle through the other end of the phone curled into Quentin’s ears and sent shivers down his spine.</p><p>“That was <em> lovely </em>.” Eliot purred, “I’m so proud of you.”</p><p>Quentin stopped at the light of an intersection, happy to wait to cross so that he could stand there with his eyes closed for a moment, just <em> basking </em> belly up in the sun of Eliot’s praise.</p><p>He hadn’t expected just how <em> good </em> that would feel. He couldn’t have prepared himself for it.</p><p>“Yeah?” Quentin asked, his voice sounded far too dreamy for 9 a.m. on a Friday morning. Even if it was a casual enough time of day to feel dreamy, looking toward the promise of the weekend.</p><p>“Yeah, Q.” Eliot’s voice was a soft admission, and then Quentin distinctly heard a stranger’s voice on the other end of the phone.</p><p>
  <em>“ Dude! You’re blocking the kombucha!” </em>
</p><p>“Pardon me, I was just resting my <em> weary bones here </em> .” Eliot said, clearly to the person on the other end of the phone. “Let me just get my <em> fucking cane out of your way. </em>”</p><p>Quentin snorted, nearly tripping in the crosswalk as Eliot launched into some serious guilt tripping wherever he was.</p><p>“I swear to god, I deserve a medal for not taking people out at the ankles with this thing.” Eliot said, mostly muttering to himself. Quentin heard the muffled sound of his movement.</p><p>“Where the hell are you?” Quentin asked.</p><p>“Whole Foods. You like carbonara?” Eliot asked in a somewhat distracted tone.</p><p>“Sure, why?”</p><p>Eliot let out a put-upon sigh. “Because you’re coming over to my apartment at 7 to eat some.”</p><p>A thrill of excitement rolled through him from head to toe.</p><p>“Am I?” Quentin asked, pitching his voice quieter as he approached the coffee shop. There were several tables on the sidewalk where people were working.</p><p>“If you wanna be a <em> good boy </em> for me, then yes,”</p><p><em>“ Jesus, Eliot </em> . You are in <em> Whole Foods. </em>” Quentin hissed, like it was some sacred sight and not, you know, just another way for Jeff Bezos to control another aspect of their society.</p><p>“Yeah, you’re easily scandalized. That’s gonna be fun. Okay I need to go now, gotta sweet talk my way into this butcher’s heart from some guanciale.” Eliot said in his all business voice and then a little quieter, “Just tell me one more time. Not the whole thing, what you said in my studio originally. What did you say, after you kissed me?”</p><p>Quentin’s shoulders rose up to meet his ears. He was third in line behind a set of young moms with strollers, loudly discussing if they wanted an almond milk matcha latte or an oat milk iced turmeric cappuccino. Disgusting. Also an iced cappuccino was <em> not a thing </em>. Still, despite the potential for terrible taste in beverages, they provided enough audio cover for Quentin.</p><p>He cleared his throat, furtively looking around as though a SWAT team was going to descend from the rafters to arrest him for being a weird sex pervert.</p><p>“Do that to me, Eliot.” Quentin said, resisting the urge to shield his mouth with a hand to stop anyone from lipreading his conversation. </p><p>“Mmm, that’s the stuff.” Eliot purred, having no right to be so sexual while the butcher was probably waiting to help him. “I’ll text you the address. 7 p.m.”</p><p>And then Eliot hung up the phone like he was on TV where no one <em> ever </em> said goodbye.</p><p>Quentin ordered a huge cold brew and a bagel with cream cheese. He settled into his favorite booth near the back of the shop and actually managed to get some work done.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-------</p><p> </p><p>What did one bring to eat carbonara and to very likely add someone to the concise list of people who had seen him naked? A box of chocolates? A candle? Flowers?</p><p>Quentin had decided on burnt almond torte. A small, two-person confection from the bakery down the street from his coffee shop. It was in a small white box, tied with red string. Quentin had nearly fumbled it five times on his journey across the river to Manhattan (NoHo more specifically) on the two different trains he had to take to get there.</p><p>Still, it had made it in one piece.</p><p>Eliot lived in an apartment building on a bustling street in NoHo. Everywhere Quentin looked, hopelessly carelessly cool residents poured into the bars and art galleries that lined the street. Feeling out of place despite nearly a full decade of living in New York, Quentin tugged at the collar of his button down (black had seemed like a nice bet) with his free hand, wondering if he should leave the two buttons unbuttoned, or just have one button unbuttoned, or should he have three?</p><p>He was saved or rather, damned by a familiar voice hollering out of a window at him from above.</p><p><em>“ Hey Coldwater!” </em>It was Margo, leaning out of a large window, both of her hands pressed to the sill as she gazed down at him. She looked him up and down teasingly,  “What ‘cha up to?”</p><p>“You know, the usual?” Quentin shouted back up at her, blushing.</p><p>A mop of curly brown hair appeared from behind the gauzy white curtain, followed by Eliot’s face as he popped into view next to Margo. He smiled widely, fondly down at Quentin. It was like he was in a competition to show every one of his teeth. Honestly?</p><p>“Hey Quentin.”</p><p>Two words. He didn’t have the right to make two words exclaimed down from the third floor sound so <em> private </em>. And then Eliot, the fucker, had the audacity to bite his lip and duck back into the apartment he’d been hanging out of.</p><p>“Christ on a Ritz Cracker.” Margo said, though it was loud enough for Quentin to catch.</p><p>Then the door a few feet away buzzed open and Quentin raced to catch it, letting himself into the small foyer of the building. Nestled together among a sea of names were two familiar ones, two little mailboxes for ‘Waugh’ in 3A and ‘Hanson’ in 3C. It figured. Quentin wondered if they had a door between their apartments like an adjoining hotel room. He hoped not for his own sake. </p><p>Yes, Quentin double checked that he’d worn deodorant before he climbed the steps to the third floor.</p><p>He arrived on the landing out of breath for totally rational reasons just as Margo was leaving the open door to Eliot’s apartment. Eliot leaned against the doorframe, one arm propped up above Margo’s much shorter head. Of course he looked amazing in a pair of dark, dark purple trousers, a purple velvet waist coat with brass buttons, a paisley collared shirt, and a green patterned silk tie. How did he make that look so <em> effortless </em>? Quentin would look like Willy Wonka in anything like that outfit.</p><p>“You look cute.” She drawled at him as he turned the corner.</p><p>“<em> Margo was just leaving.” </em>Eliot said, with mock nonchalance and a raise of his eyebrows at her.</p><p>“Bye, Margo.” Quentin said, trying not to squirm at her knowing eyes and little smile.</p><p>“Bye--” Margo waved, sauntering down the hallway in her chic looking navy loungewear set, her hair in a swingy ponytail. She paused at her own door, looking over her shoulder at both of them, once again <em> knowing </em>, “you kids play nice. Promise I won’t put my ear to the wall.”</p><p>Quentin blanched as Margo softly closed the door to her apartment behind her. And how weird was it that she’d been to his place probably a million times but he hadn’t seen so much as a photo of her kitchen since she’d moved two years ago?</p><p>“Ignore her. I do.” Eliot said, breezily. He reached out one of those unfairly long arms of his and reeled Quentin into his apartment by the sleeve.</p><p>Quentin went easily, his heart thump thump thumping all the while.</p><p>Eliot closed the door behind them, flipping the lock as all New Yorkers were in the habit of doing. The apartment itself, well, it was <em> something </em>. Eliot had the benefit of being on the corner so two entire walls of the living room had big, tall windows that practically went from floor to ceiling. Several of them were open, letting the early evening breeze into his home. The two outside walls were exposed brick, the rest of the apartment was painted a cool gray.</p><p>The floor was warm hardwood (probably original) and covered throughout by plush looking rugs in the living/dining room. A big comfortable grey sectional took up the majority of the living room, scattered with pillows in rich jewel tones and a variety of fabrics. There was a fancy looking glass coffee table with several books and (naturally) a cut crystal ashtray.</p><p>Quentin was glad to see that Eliot wasn’t too pretentious to not have a television, a flatscreen was mounted on the wall opposite the couch. Of course there was art, tons and tons of photographs and strange mixed media pieces hung elegantly all over.</p><p>“Oh? For me?” Eliot asked, pulling the box from Quentin’s hands, leaving him to snoop.</p><p>Eliot breezed into the kitchen where two empty wine glasses were sitting on the tiny kitchen island. Seriously. It was tiny, maybe two 2x2 feet and covered by a big butcher block cutting board.</p><p>This place was all so <em> domestic </em>. Homey. Welcoming. Quentin had kind of expected a hyper formal parlor or a turn of the century bordello vibe. But Eliot had seaglass in jars along one of the shelves in the living room. And a dining room table, large enough for 6 people to eat, but only two place settings were laid out, one at the head of the table and another right next to it.</p><p><em> Eliot wore house slippers </em>.</p><p>His usual cane along with several others and some fancy umbrellas rested in a stand by the front door and a small coat closet. </p><p>There was a yoga mat and some kind of foam cylinder thing poking out from behind the couch.</p><p>It was all such a surprise.</p><p>“Set your things down anywhere.” Eliot called from the kitchen, glancing over at where Quentin was still standing by the door.</p><p>Quentin dropped his bag down on the floor, as out of the way as possible. He debated on if he should take off his shoes. Personally, he was a ‘home is where the shoes aren’t’ kind of guy, but Eliot was in a weird middle ground with his whole slipper situation.</p><p>He left the shoes on and hung up his jacket on the stand by the door, finally heading to where Eliot was pouring the wine, looking vaguely amused by the whole situation. He poured each of them a scant glass. If someone had served him much that in a bar, Quentin would have texted Margo something snarky and still tipped 20%.</p><p>But hello <em> research, </em> Quentin knew it wasn’t ethical to scene under the influence of anything. This was Eliot looking out for both of them. This was also probably Eliot’s way of saying, ‘It’s sacrilege to have dinner without a drink, what am I? A neanderthal?’</p><p>And thus they each had about a thimbleful of white wine to sip with dinner.</p><p>“This place is huge.” Quentin said, code for ‘The rent must be <em> insane!’ </em></p><p>Eliot handed Quentin one of the glasses, their fingers brushing in the handoff. Quentin smelled the wine before taking a sip because he’d seen people do that in movies.</p><p>“Margo owns the building.” Eliot said with a shrug.</p><p>Quentin’s eyes widened.</p><p>How much was Margo <em> making </em> on his books?</p><p>He needed to revisit his contract.</p><p>Quentin shook his head. Must be nice.</p><p>Pivoting on a dime, Eliot took a sip of his wine and shot Quentin an appraising look. “How are you with a grater?”</p><p>Certainly not what he’d been expecting. Quentin shrugged. “Okay I guess?”</p><p>“Well, I suppose we’ll see.” Eliot said seriously, nodding towards a grater and a block of parmesan cheese on the counter. “Get to work then.”</p><p>Pleasantly surprised to have something to do with his hands, Quentin washed his in the farm sink and then set about grating the cheese into a bowl.</p><p>Eliot busied himself, throwing dry linguini into a pot of boiling water on the back burner. Quentin watched him out of the corner of his eye as Eliot confidently threw small cubes of what looked like bacon into a silver flying pan with a sizzle. He stirred the boiling water and then turned to rapidly chop parsley on the block in the center of the kitchen.</p><p>“You’re, like really good at this.” Quentin commented, trying for nonchalance.</p><p>Eliot paused in his chopping, looking up at Quentin from under the curls that had fallen over his brow. It really couldn’t be overstated how <em> otherworldly </em> he was in his perfection. He smirked, “Well when I was preparing for a life of trophy husbandship to someone old and fabulously wealthy, I figured I’d need to learn some kind of <em> skill </em>to keep myself around whenever the spark died and he couldn’t get it up anymore.”</p><p>“Right. Yeah.” Quentin continued grating until there was nothing left in his hand but the rind of the parmesan left. Eliot snatched that away for some reason and threw it into a container in the freezer, which <em> okay </em>.</p><p>“I’m fucking with you, Quentin.” Eliot nudged him playfully with an elbow on his way back to the stove. “I was <em> obviously </em> going to marry someone young and stupid like I was. Who <em> also </em> had lots and lots of cash.”</p><p>“I never thought you were stupid.” Quentin said, wiping his hands off on a hand towel. He kinda wanted to jump up and sit on the counter to watch Eliot work, but he thought that might be frowned upon. He settled for leaning against the counter with his glass of wine, watching Eliot’s hands move confidently among the pots and pans.</p><p>Eliot scrunched up his face, smoothing it out so quickly that Quentin could have imagined he saw it. “Oh, Mr. Coldwater, you’re sweet. A liar. But sweet.”</p><p>Quentin didn’t know what to quite make of that.</p><p>Soon he was jumping out of the way so that Eliot could dump the pasta into a colander in the sink, releasing a huge cloud of steam. He worked quickly, transferring the pasta to the pan where the meat had been cooking, tossing both together along with the fat that had rendered. Then, into the pan went several beaten eggs set off to the side, most of the cheese that Quentin had grated, and a bunch of freshly cracked pepper from a big mill next to the stove. Eliot tossed the pasta all together with careful flicks of the handle, nothing spilled.</p><p>Wow okay, that was way hotter than it should have been.</p><p>Quentin was bid to grab two wide, shallow bowls from a cabinet over the sink. Eliot plated the pasta with the help of a carving fork and a big serving spoon, crafting neat little nests of pasta. He deposited them into the bowls and then sprinkled parsley and more of the cheese over the top.</p><p>It smelled like absolute heaven.</p><p>“Grab the glasses?” Eliot asked, nodding over his shoulder at his own barely touched wine glass.</p><p>Wasn’t Eliot supposed to be ordering Quentin around? No. He probably wanted to <em> talk </em> more before that happened. A warm rush went through him as Eliot passed by him on his way to the dining room table with the food. Quentin grabbed the wine glasses and met him there.</p><p>To nobody’s shock, Eliot sat himself at the head of the table. Quentin sat down to his right, quietly pleased that Eliot hadn’t tried to push in his chair for him or do one of those other chivalrous things that Quentin found awkward and weirdly patronizing.</p><p>Eliot held up his wine glass expectantly, his hazel eyes practically glittering in the glow of the <em> actual chandelier </em>that hung over the kitchen table. Quickly, Quentin picked up his own, holding it aloft.</p><p>“To surprises.” Eliot said thoughtfully.</p><p>They clinked their wine glasses against each other, adhering to that often shouted bar superstition that you had to make eye contact with everyone at the table while you drank if there was a toast.</p><p>And so they did just that.</p><p>The food was <em> amazing </em>. Quentin basically audibly moaned around the first bite. The pasta was perfectly cooked and the sauce was the right blend of creamy, rich, and salty without being heavy. It was a far cry from his little containers stacked in the fridge back home.</p><p>“Eliot, this is so fucking good.” Quentin told him, laying down his fork to put both his hands down on the table.</p><p>Eliot waved a hand like <em>‘oh, who me?’ </em> but he looked pleased with himself as he took a sip of wine.</p><p>“You gonna make that sound again?” Eliot asked him with a playfully raised eyebrow.</p><p>Rake. Absolute rake.</p><p>“Play your cards right.” Quentin said, feeling cheeky despite his nerves.</p><p>“Oh I plan on cheating at every opportunity.” Eliot told him, not joking. “Eat your pasta.”</p><p>So Quentin did.</p><p>They ate in companionable silence, the whole while Quentin kept wondering when it was gonna begin. He’d <em> told </em>him what he wanted, followed his instructions. Eliot had said all he had to do was tell him what he wanted and then Eliot would make that a reality.</p><p>Though the pasta was so good, maybe that’s what he wanted <em> instead </em>of mind-blowing sex with Eliot.</p><p>All too soon, Quentin was pleasantly full of pasta and his glass of wine. He helped Eliot gather the plates, loading them into the dishwasher while Eliot put the leftovers away into the fridge. He wiped down the butcher block with a dishtowel and then threw it into a cabinet under the sink. They left the pan in the sink to soak off the little browned bits on the bottom in hot soapy water.</p><p>“Let’s go have a chat on the couch.” Eliot said, motioning to the living room. He held court here just like he always had, easily bending every social situation to his will. Though in Quentin’s experience that had always meant somehow convincing a bar to put on karaoke on an off night, or drunkenly sitting down at a piano in a hotel lobby only to regale everyone with a classical interpretation of Beyonce’s ‘Drunk in Love’ while Margo tried to drag Quentin into a waiting car. </p><p>“Bring your glass.” Eliot told him. So he did.</p><p>Quentin swallowed against the sudden tightness of his throat. He dutifully brought his glass over to the couch and had a minor crisis about where to sit.</p><p>Eliot solved the problem for him, depositing his own empty wine glass on the coffee table along with one of those big bottles of sparkling water from a fancy restaurant. Then he pretty much shoved Quentin into the deep corner of the couch where it bent into an ‘L’ shape, like a chaise lounge. Quentin landed with an <em> ‘oof’, </em> bouncing a bit. Eliot took his glass, the flash of one of his many rings catching the light from a floor lamp in the corner.</p><p>“As much as I’m sure you’d like to be good and liquored up for the talking part, that’s not the best idea.” Eliot said, handing him a glass of sparkling water. He filled his own glass and sat down beside him, not so close that their bodies were pressed against each other. But he took off his slippers and rested his legs up on the couch, his legs pressing over top of Quentin’s knees. So he was kinda stuck now. And there were Eliot’s bare feet on the couch, as elegant and long as the rest of him. Distracting.</p><p>“Hmm, yeah, that’d be not great.” Quentin said, feeling more out of his depth now that this was like, <em> actually </em> happening. He’d had nearly a week to think about this and he had <em> thought </em> about it repeatedly, maybe a little obsessively. But even Quentin hadn’t been capable of preparing for every scenario, this one included where Eliot was making him dinner and being a good host, and just <em> being </em>.</p><p>Eliot snorted and reached out, patting Quentin’s knee absently as though he could read Quentin’s thoughts.</p><p>“So your email, though incredibly <em> compelling </em> ,” Eliot said, hands clasping his wine glass, “very compelling--compelled me twice over and then once more in the shower the next day if you know what I mean--anyway,” Quentin nearly swallowed his tongue. “As <em> compelling </em> as it was, it also kinda lacked specific <em> interests </em> --fuck it, I’m not gonna beat around the bush with you, Quentin. It didn’t list any of the kinks you wanted to try, any of your <em> specific </em>fantasies.”</p><p>Quentin hid somewhat in his glass, some of the air let out of his sails by what Eliot was saying.</p><p>“So here’s what I’m thinking. We’re getting to know each other, learn how compatible we are in this whole--” Eliot looked at a loss for words.</p><p>“Arrangement?” Quentin broke in.</p><p>“Arrangement, sure.” Eliot nodded. “We can’t do anything until I have a real idea how compatible your interests and mine are. Think of it like sexual small talk. Only instead of asking where you vacationed as a kid, we find out just how much you like the idea of being all tied up for me.”</p><p>
  <em> Jeez louise. </em>
</p><p>“I mean--I brought a checklist.” Quentin offered in a small voice.</p><p>Eliot tilted his head at him, “A checklist?”</p><p>Quentin nodded, motioning for Eliot to lift his legs so Quentin could get out from under them. Eliot watched him, amused, as he pulled two papers and a pen from his messenger bag near the door.</p><p>“Yeah, the book I bought had PDFs online? Like for kink checklists and mental exercises. So I printed it out and did it, I printed a blank one for you too--if you want…” Quentin trailed off quietly.</p><p>Eliot looked at him with a hard to read expression, that was, until his face split into a wide grin, the crinkles around his eyes deepening.</p><p>“You brought me paperwork?” Eliot finally asked, his voice full of mirth, laughing.</p><p>Quentin flushed, holding the papers behind his back. He’d missed something somewhere. “If it’s stupid I can--sorry. I just assumed. Sometimes I--can be weird.” That creeping worry curled into his brain, scaring away the low simmering warmth he’d been feeling since he got off the subway. Really since he’d gotten off the phone that morning.</p><p>Fuck, he was probably gonna send Quentin home again and then it would just be too awkward to ever see Eliot again. Which meant Margo would be weird around him, and--</p><p>Eliot’s eyes went warm and wide, “<em> No, no, no </em> Quentin.” He held his arms out to Quentin, beckoning him back to the couch. Reluctantly, Quentin returned to the couch. Quentin perched woodenly on the edge of his seat, trying to keep the papers out of Eliot’s eye-line. “I think it’s considerate, and <em> charming </em> of you, really.”</p><p>Quentin twitched the papers nervously, “Um, I can go if I made it weird.”</p><p>“Don’t you fucking dare!” Eliot hauled him back further onto the couch, a strong arm wrapped around his shoulders. Quentin’s muscles locked up, refusing to relax.</p><p>The brave thing.</p><p>What’s the worst that could happen?</p><p>“Look,” Quentin said, “I’m inexperienced. With this. Pretty much with a lot of sex stuff, but that’s like a whole conversation I’m not gonna get into. I <em> get </em> that. I thought this would show you that I’d thought about what I <em> really </em> wanted to do or to try. Since we both know that sometimes I don’t do the big articulate thing well.”</p><p>Eliot squeezed him tighter, kissed the side of his head like that was a normal thing to do.</p><p>This was Eliot. Nothing about him was normal.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Quentin if I made you feel for even a millisecond like you weren’t--this is a new thing for you. I shouldn’t have laughed, I really did think it was just so cute. I’m an asshole. I’ve always just talked this through. Negotiated things. Which we’re still going to have to--this checklist is good through, gets it all out in the open.” Eliot said. </p><p>He kept Quentin’s body pressed into his side so that Quentin didn’t have to look him in the eye when he spoke. That was a small mercy.</p><p>“It was in the <em> book. </em>” Quentin insisted, embarassed. He didn’t mention how it had also been in all of the fan fiction he’d read over the years.</p><p>“I want to fill out your checklist, Q.” Eliot said, making grabby hands for Quentin’s papers.</p><p>“You can’t fucking laugh at me again, hard limit.” Quentin told him, wapping him in the chest with the papers.</p><p>He really didn’t need Eliot to find out that there was a copy of his most recent STD testing <em> also </em> in his bag. That would just be the end of it. He’d never survive if Eliot found out there was <em> more </em> paperwork around.</p><p>“It’s not like--the full version, I think? More like just the basics, just front and back. I looked at the other one and it was <em> comprehensive </em>. It was like 6 pages long.” Quentin said, gulping. He hadn’t known what half the stuff on the other list was. If he didn’t know, he really couldn’t ask for it.</p><p>Eliot ‘Hmmd’ at him absently, squinting down at the paper. He used his leg as a surface to check off his answers rather than the coffee table. His other arm was still wrapped around Quentin’s shoulders, holding him close. Quentin picked up the other man’s hand and examined it for want of something to do.</p><p>He made a note to himself, don’t put a fucking checklist into <em> his </em>book.</p><p>Not unless his protagonist was super into feeling like the floor was going to cave in at any moment.</p><p>His own paper--well that was just a big long, treatise into how Quentin wanted just <em> too much </em> . How he <em> really </em> was into giving oral. Doing just a lot of things with his mouth--honestly. Quentin’s desire to be manhandled and held down. The rope stuff. How absolutely positively he wanted someone to tell him what to do. His true fucking affinity for the lost art of giving and receiving hickies. How he was hesitantly interested in some pain play.</p><p>What he didn’t want was there too. Along with the specific, <em> bad scary </em> kinks that gave him that panicked feeling of fucking flight there was was another theme to be found. Quentin didn’t want to be made to fail or abandoned. The thought alone made him nauseous.</p><p>Sure, he wanted someone to take care of him in the bedroom but he didn’t want to feel <em> worthless </em> , like Eliot was doing him a huge favor. No. Quentin wanted to feel <em> appreciated </em>. Like this was a mutually beneficial arrangement.</p><p>He just--didn’t want to be a fucking burden, okay?</p><p>Minutes later--no, Quentin didn’t look at Eliot’s answers, that felt like cheating-- Eliot sat up straighter and proclaimed himself done. They exchanged papers, and then it did feel a bit like cheating because it was all <em> out there </em>.</p><p>“I think we can both agree on some basics,” Eliot said conversationally, “Neither one of us are interested in heavy pain play, slave stuff, or bodily functions better left for behind a bathroom door--not that I’m kinkshaming anyone.”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s just a no. No to that stuff.” Quentin said, and then tacked on feeling kinda manic for a moment, “And um, just don’t be like, mean to me? It wasn’t on there, but don’t ignore me, please? Okay?” He turned to look at Eliot then.</p><p>Eliot’s eyes went all big, eyebrows furrowed together, “<em>Never </em>. I’d never do that to you, Q. I’m not--” he paused and focused on the middle distance for a moment, collecting his thoughts, “I don’t get off on--that, and I couldn’t ignore you if I tried.”</p><p>A bolt of heat went through Quentin at the words.</p><p>“You can, uh--you can tease me and stuff. Tell me ‘no’ like you did on Monday. I think that’s okay.” Quentin said, emboldened. “I liked it.”</p><p>Eliot’s face turned wolfish. “Yeah? What did you like about it?”</p><p>The talking thing. Quentin could <em> do </em> this even while embarrassing heat lifted the color on his cheeks and tingled in his belly.</p><p>“I--um,” Great start. Really excellent. “I liked that you didn’t let me have my way, I guess? Because you wanted something else from me?” Eliot nodded encouragingly, Quentin could feel Eliot’s fingertips just kind of lazing back and forth across his forearm through the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t know, it was just really hot?” Apparently everything was a question.</p><p>Eliot smiled, scrunching up his nose a bit. “So that’s on the table. I think it’s pretty clear you’d like to follow my instructions, don’t you? It's a skill of yours. Do you want to follow my instructions?”</p><p>Quentin had to take a sip of his water, his throat was dry as hell all of a sudden. He nodded.</p><p>“You know, I think that’s a rule now--you like rules. Rule #1, you have to answer me if I ask you a question. I wanna hear you say it.” Eliot said, that firm tone of voice was back. “With words. Unless otherwise occupied. And be honest with me, this only works if we’re both honest with each other.”</p><p>Quentin let out a somewhat strangled chuckle. “Yeah, I’d like to do that. I want to. And--I’ll tell you the truth.”</p><p>Eliot’s eyes were intense, searching out Quentin’s face for every micro-expression. It was weird to be studied like that. What was it gonna be like if he was <em> naked? </em></p><p>Quentin shuddered.</p><p>“What was that? What are you thinking about, Q?” Eliot asked.</p><p>Quentin pursed his lips, not wanting to answer, kind of loving that he <em> had to.</em></p><p>“I was thinking--about what it would be like if you looked at me like that--when i’m naked. It’s kind of--it’s intense.” Quentin said, proud of himself for answering honestly.</p><p>“Good. You’re--” Eliot set down his paper to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You’re just <em> good </em>, Q. At this. Right now. You make it hard to focus on this part.”</p><p>They hadn’t even <em> done </em>anything.</p><p>Delicate little soap bubbles of <em> something </em> stirred in him, each one of them threatening to pop at the slightest provocation.</p><p>Quentin looked away, skimming Eliot’s sheet of paper. Eliot did the same and so they went back to learning about the others dirty little interests.</p><p>It was all very compatible. Eliot was way more into using toys than Quentin (he usually went digital underground) and he was interested in ‘Sharing a Partner’, but he’d written ‘<em> Only with Margo ;)’ </em>next to the option. That was frankly, not a surprise. He wanted some details on how that went, but that was for a later date.</p><p>Would there be a later date?</p><p>They hadn’t discussed that. Anything to do with that at all. Eliot had just said to call him with what he wanted. So he had.</p><p>Who knew if Quentin would even <em> like </em> it? This sex thing? With Eliot?</p><p>Eliot. Margo apparently. The known universe, probably. Oh and Fen.</p><p>They knew he’d like it.</p><p>If he liked just the <em> embarrassing talking </em>part, Quentin had a feeling that introducing orgasms into the mix would just ruin him for all things forever.</p><p>So what would happen if this was just the one time?</p><p>He couldn’t think about that at the moment.</p><p>Eliot liked restraints (ropes and handcuffs, but not tape--which was fine). He <em> really </em> seemed to like dirty talk from both sides. Quentin gulped, his dick actually twitching as he looked at the little filled in check marks beside ‘Orgasm Control’ and ‘Edging’ respectively. Eliot was into spankings, but not into purely painful punishment as he’d said before. Biting. <em>Zoinks!</em> Pulling hair, not so much having his own pulled but he liked doing it to his partner. Leaving marks, though nothing permanent. Having someone kneel for him--</p><p>Eliot liked it when people called him ‘<em> Daddy’. </em></p><p>
  <em> Jesus. </em>
</p><p><em> Because Quentin wanted that, too </em>. Maybe.</p><p>It was complicated.</p><p>What a dangerous, thrilling thought.</p><p>Quentin shook his head and looked away from the paper, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “I’m ah--I’m not, you can’t <em> know </em> that I’m good at this. I’m-uh <em> not </em>. I haven’t done any of this stuff.” Quentin said, breaking the silence.</p><p>Eliot raised an eyebrow and gently took his paper out of Quentin’s hands, leaning over to drop them on the end of the couch, out of reach. Then he took both of Quentin’s hands in his own and spoke. Quentin basically held his breath.</p><p>“I know you’re good at this because of that little flush you get when you’re turned on and how you go all boneless with the right touch and when I tell you what a good boy you are.” Eliot said, his voice a low private thing among the sounds of traffic and people out on the street. His hands squeezed Quentin’s. Quentin looked away. “Because you like to be taken care of and you don’t like to have to make choices. You find comfort in all your rituals and routines that keep you focused. You are <em> good </em>, Quentin. I think you’re scared of what it will feel like when you let yourself believe that, because it’s all just gonna fall away--all of the worries and the bullshit--everything except what this body feels. Everything that I do to you.”</p><p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p><p>Seriously, it bared repeating. Fuck.</p><p>“You’re a good boy,” Eliot said firmly. Quentin squirmed at the endearment, feeling like he’d been shot through with arousal and a little shame for liking it so much. Eliot said it like there was no room for argument, like a fact agreed upon in the scientific community. The Earth is round and Quentin Coldwater is a Good Boy. “You don’t have experience with the things on this paper? I could give a <em> fuck </em> . Seriously. The best part of being with someone are the new, fumbling parts where we’re both <em> learning </em> and trying. I want to take fucking notes on what makes you hard, Quentin. What you like. Watch your shocked little face when you figure it out. Lastly, I know you were probably dreamed up somewhere to torment me because <em> you told me </em> to do this to you. You didn’t ask. You told me. I’m fucking <em> honored </em>that it gets to be me.”</p><p>Quentin let out a whimper. Like an actual whimper. It bubbled up through him before he could stop it. Eliot’s thumbs rubbed over the backs of his hands soothingly.</p><p>Quentin was going to have to quit his job. Seriously. If Eliot could deliver a speech like that, Quentin had no business writing romance novels. He’d find a new career somewhere at the mall.</p><p>Eliot let go of one of Quentin’s hands to brush a lock of hair back behind his ear. How many millions of previously undiscovered nerve endings were in his fucking ears?</p><p>“I think I’ve wanted someone--you to do that for a while.” Quentin said, his voice was rough like he hadn’t spoken in years, squirmy and hot under the collar.</p><p>Eliot’s response was a thoughtful sound. His thumb traced the contour of Quentin’s cheekbone absently. Little zings of sensation went off in Quentin’s brain. He shifted awkwardly on the couch, trying to hide the erection that was making itself pretty well known despite Quentin’s embarrassment.</p><p>Probably <em> because </em> of his embarrassment and <em> that </em> was a lot to unpack.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m just--” Quentin collected himself, though it was really hard to think while Eliot now seemed content to stroke his earlobe with his thumb. “I’m like this sex-positive romance author and I can’t <em> talk </em> about this stuff without having a minor crisis? I don’t know if you’ve noticed this about me, but my brain is kind of broken? I tend to jump to the worst conclusions and scare myself out of wanting--doing things, like <em> all </em> the time.” Quentin swallowed against a lump in his throat, channeling Heather in that moment, “There’s this thing my anxiety where I avoid the thing I’m worried about because that makes the feeling go away, you know. But all that tells my brain is that the thing is worth avoiding and it just rewards that loop, so I just end up avoiding more. But it’s when I actually do the thing--put myself in the scary situation that I can realize that it’s not actually that bad, and it becomes less stressful.”</p><p>He chanced a look over at Eliot, hoping he wouldn’t be met with laughter at his admission.</p><p>Instead, Eliot appeared deeply in thought, his warm green eyes focused on Quentin’s lips.</p><p>“Or at least that’s what--um, that’s what my therapist tells me. And it <em> is </em> like, a true thing at least for me and my brain.” Quentin wrapped up with a blush.</p><p>Eliot took a deep breath and let it out slowly, “You know that doesn't mean trying something you're legitimately uncomfortable with, right? You’re allowed to have limits. You <em> should </em> have limits. It’s my job to keep you safe, respect those limits.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Quentin said, “It’s actually doing the things I <em> want </em> to do but i’m nervous to try. Because I’m nervous about fucking <em> everything. </em> Because I <em> really </em>want you to do all the things I checked off, like a stupid amount. It’s crazy how much I want--to try.”</p><p>“Me too.” Eliot said. He tugged Quentin’s face to his. “This okay?”</p><p>“Fuck--yeah.” Quentin said.</p><p>And then they were kissing.</p><p>Eliot was just as warm and inviting with his body as he had been with his home. He thumbed over Quentin’s cheek tenderly, his lips opening in invitation to Quentin. And Quentin, always hungry for any morsel of attention, met him there a bit frantically. He was uncoordinated and his hands were awkwardly balled up on his own thighs because he didn’t know what to do with them. Wanting to touch--not wanting to be <em> too much </em>.</p><p>Tempering his frantic movements, Eliot coaxed Quentin into something softer, slower. He rewarded Quentin with a low, rumbling sound from deep in his chest and a nip to Quentin’s lower lip as he pulled away.</p><p>Eliot’s eyes were at half mast and dreamy, holding Quentin’s face in his hands. He held onto Quentin like he was something precious, pressed a thumb over Quentin’s lower lip like he wanted to imprint the feeling of his lips on his fingerprints forever.</p><p>Quentin, still a hungry, frayed nerve instinctively nipped at that thumb with his teeth, just to see what happened. Just because he wanted to. </p><p>Eliot’s face curled into a slow grin. That same thumb hooked over Quentins bottom lip and dragged his mouth open in a quick thrill. Quentin keened in surprise, Eliot's mouth covered his own, capturing the sound for himself.</p><p>Eliot’s hand released Quentin’s mouth, content to keep it open as his tongue swept deep inside. Eliot’s thumb left a slick train down his jaw and neck, setting his strong hand there to steady Quentin while he took what he wanted from his mouth.</p><p>Quentin whined and there was nothing he could do but surrender under the onslaught of <em> Eliot </em> . He could only batten down the hatches and pray that when the storm was over that there would be anything of him left. His hands itched to do <em> anything </em>, unsure if it was alright to sink into the fine fabric of Eliot’s vest.</p><p>When he pulled away, Quentin was shaking, fine little tremors up and down his arms. He breathed in little sips of oxygen in shallow, quick breaths.</p><p>“Oh, my <em> brave boy </em>.” Eliot said into the skin of Quentin’s jaw, gathering him even closer on the couch. They were pressed together from hip to chest. “Should I tell you what you’re gonna do for me?”</p><p>“Yes, please?” Quentin whispered back. It was only polite.</p><p>Eliot bit him gently right at the place where his neck met his jaw in goodbye. Quentin shuddered.</p><p>“He says <em> please </em>,” Eliot sighed to himself. Quentin preened. “You’re gonna take off all these clothes so I can see every inch of your sweet little body and then Quentin, you’re going to show me how you make yourself feel good when you’re all alone in that bed of yours. I want to watch you fall apart for me.”</p><p>
  <em> Jeez Louise. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading! Your feedback gives me LIFE!</p><p>Sex stuff in the next chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Doing the Brave Thing (Part 2)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay so here's part two. I simply had to get this off my computer to stop myself from editing it over and over again. This is my first sex scene so just in the words of Quentin, 'Don't be like mean.'</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> “You’re gonna take off all these clothes so I can see every inch of your sweet little body and then Quentin, you’re gonna show me how you make yourself feel good when you’re all alone in that bed of yours. </em>   <em> I want to watch you fall apart for me.” </em></p><p>Well that made it all <em> real </em>didn’t it?</p><p>Thoughts of <em>‘but I want’ </em> and <em>‘</em><em><em>but</em> I need’ </em> rattled around in his head. There were so many things he wanted, so badly. He wanted Eliot to fuck him, carve out a space that would just be for <em> him </em> . Wow, okay clingy. Quentin wanted to get his own mouth all over Eliot--particularly his dick--he wanted to lose himself sloppily trying to take all of him down because there had been <em> so much </em> pressed against him on Monday. If Quentin had a favored terrain, it was between somebody’s legs. And he wanted--just like a stupid amount.</p><p>But Eliot was in charge and he just wanted Quentin to touch <em> himself </em>? </p><p>That didn’t--that wasn’t how he’d expected this to go.</p><p>He’d said he wanted Eliot to lead him, <em> do this </em>. If Quentin was driving and Eliot had the roadmap, he’d have to follow his directions, knowing that Eliot would take him to the right destination.</p><p>Quentin had said--said he wanted to submit to Eliot. So he was going to. But it wasn’t going to be a smooth transition.</p><p>“What?” Quentin whimpered. A nervous, giddy feeling went through him. He was harder than ever at the thought, pressing against the button fly of his jeans uncomfortably. “You’re not gonna--shouldn’t we talk about what I should call you or I don’t know <em> protection </em> or something first? Safewords? And-- here on the couch?”</p><p>Eliot sat up straighter, his hand tightened a bit on the side of Quentin's neck, not restricting his breathing at all, just making every hair on his body stand on end at the skin to skin contact. It was possessive. Quentin felt possessed. He leaned even more into Quentin’s space, his other hand running through Quentin’s hair, tangling with it as much as he could while it was pulled back in a hair tie. </p><p>And then Eliot fucking <em> pulled </em> on his hair and a strangled shout came out Quentin’s mouth. That had never been that much of a <em> thing </em>. Quentin’s hand flew up, covering his mouth like he could keep any other embarrassing sounds from escaping. He tingled like, all over, relishing in that steady, firm pressure of Eliot’s tight grip on his hair.</p><p>“Sweetie, we’re just getting <em> started </em>.” Eliot said, his voice low and commanding. Quentin wanted to show him his belly. “Not gonna make you call me anything--I like it when you say my name.”</p><p>With intention, Eliot took his hand from Quentin’s neck and wrapped it around his wrist, pulling his hand away from his mouth. Quentin didn’t resist a <em> bit </em>. He was irresistible.</p><p>
  <em>“Eliot.” </em>
</p><p>He smirked, “Yeah, just like that.”</p><p>“But--” Quentin’s brain was swimming in happy chemicals. It made stringing words together into sentences an Olympic sport. Somehow his recall of that checklist though, that was completely unaffected. “On your checklist it said--you like it when people, they call you--”</p><p>Eliot’s hands turned gentle, holding him still but he released Quentin’s hair from it’s hairband with a quick pull and ran a sweeping hand though it from the crown of his head to the back of his skull. Soothing--probably easier to gather a great big handful of hair to <em> tug on it </em>.</p><p> “Let’s make you another rule, shall we?” Quentin nodded hazily, loving that all he had to do was focus on this. “Rule #2, you have to ask for what you want. Do you <em> want </em> to call me that, Quentin? Do you want to call me Daddy? You can ask for that.”</p><p>Quentin opened his mouth and nothing came out. Eliot seemed content to wait, testing the pulse in his wrist as it galloped along.</p><p>What did that look like? What would that make Quentin feel like? If he said that? Could he say that? Eliot was clearly turned on by the mere implication. Then Quentin remembered, Eliot had told him he didn’t have to <em> do </em> anything that he truly didn’t want to.</p><p>And calling Eliot ‘Daddy’ when he already felt so out of his element with the rush of all of it, that was too much. He just wanted <em> Eliot, </em> for now. They were Quentin and Eliot. Not different people even if this was <em> another universe </em>from what he was used to.</p><p>“I <em> can’t-- </em>can't say that.” Quentin admitted, worry a slippery thing in his stomach.</p><p>It wasn’t an ‘I won’t’ or an ‘I don’t want to’. Quentin had chosen his words specifically. Can’t. Couldn’t. He was good at choosing words. This one implied that one day that the word might change to ‘Could’. It might change to the question of, <em> ‘Can I call you--?’ </em></p><p>Eliot shrugged and kissed him on the nose of all things. There was no disappointment. Nothing.</p><p>Who knew he had so many nerve endings on the end of his nose?</p><p>“That’s good, thank you for being honest with me, baby. We’re setting limits here.” Eliot’s voice was a warm balm that melted all over him. He kept expecting for the other shoe to drop with Eliot, but it just never did. Eliot was a constant, calming presence, somehow also stocking a fire in Quentin. This is what he’d been afraid of, what happened when Eliot turned all his attention onto someone. It was <em> consuming </em> . It was why he’d always slipped away or out the door or into a cab--now there was just <em> this.  </em></p><p>Meanwhile, Eliot continued to just plow on--articulate and put together and charming and Quentin couldn’t remember his own telephone number.</p><p>“We only do what we’re both comfortable with. Rule #3, tell me if you're uncomfortable or if you want to stop. We’ll slow down and evaluate. We’ll stop. You know the traffic light system, smarty pants?”</p><p>Quentin nodded, transfixed with Eliot's mouth in a way that probably wasn’t healthy. It was <em> such </em> a good mouth. Laughing, smirking, smoking, drinking, kissing and <em> biting. </em> Quentin wanted to reach out and <em> touch </em> but he didn’t know if it would be allowed. So he kept his hands to himself, antsy. If Eliot could turn him on so much with just words, Quentin was gonna be a fucking goner if he got Eliot’s mouth on any part of his body again.</p><p>“Okay, tell me. Remember the rule?” Eliot asked patiently. He kept giving him all these second chances to get it right, Quentin thought. He kinda wanted to know what would happen when he <em> didn’t </em>.</p><p>“I answer your questions?” Quentin said after a long pause. A question for a question.</p><p>Eliot’s eyebrows rose in mirth, not laughing at him, just amused and that made Quentin kinda want to curl up in a ball somewhere. “Hey no,” Eliot said, that hand in his hair left to palm basically the entire side of Quentin’s face. It kinda felt like the only thing that was holding him up. “It’s okay, you’re just--Q, baby, I've hardly touched you and you’re just-- <em> perfect </em> for me. It’s kind of a trip. A good one. Everything feels like a little much for you, doesn’t it though?”</p><p>Quentin nodded, remembering the rule. “‘M, yeah.”</p><p>That seemed like enough for Eliot, who sighed and kissed him again, his lips pressing there and gone against Quentin’s half open mouth.</p><p>“Can you tell me about the traffic light system?” Eliot asked again. He searched Quentin’s face intently. “We can just--keep doing<em> this </em> if you need some time. I’m not opposed to stretching out on the couch and using you as a body pillow--just have to keep doing this--” He said, pulling Quentin’s hair again along with a shocked whine from his lips, “to keep you all loose and sweet for me.”</p><p>Quentin shook his head a bit in Eliot’s grip, realizing it meant he could pull <em> against </em> the hand in his hair, he did it again. He’d never felt like this before, losing so much control while the other person seemed perfectly put together. Sex had always been about the mutual hurry of shedding clothing, hopping under covers, shutting off the lights. He felt so <em> seen </em> but also <em> safe </em> with Eliot. Hadn’t the other man proven so far that he wanted this just as much as Quentin did?</p><p>That realization made Quentin flush harder, his breath hitch more when Eliot’s praise fell upon him as Quentin explained, “Green means ‘Hey, I’m Quentin and this is great.’, Yellow means ‘Caution, I might be about to freak out and need a moment to slow down.’ and Red means, ‘Nope, nope, nope. Don’t Walk Signal. Stop.’”</p><p>“Jesus, I’m gonna get that cross stitched on a pillow or something.” Eliot said between pressing about 1000 kisses across Quentin’s brow. “You’re such a smart, sweet boy. Red means stop. You wanna stop, we stop. Simple as that.”</p><p>Eliot was <em> really </em> affectionate.</p><p>Quentin felt drugged.</p><p>He voiced this opinion.</p><p>Eliot ruffled his hair fondly, Quentin wanted to hiss at him like Jane Catwin. Wanting the attention but also coiled to run at any moment. Scrappy and feral.</p><p>“I don’t want to stop though. I wanna do the other thing, what you said--I want.” Quentin said. He was fucking whining. <em> Whining </em> . He was an adult man, whining because he wanted to jerk off for Eliot. Worried now that he wasn’t gonna get it. This was <em> nuts </em>. </p><p>Eliot shushed him, running strong palms across his shoulders, squeezing the tense muscles of his biceps. A brief hand rubbed his belly over his shirt, <em> what the fuck </em>?</p><p>“You feeling good?” Eliot asked what was an obvious question. Quentin was <em> fucking peachy. </em> Part man, part jelly. “Last thing for now, Okay? We’re gonna be safe about this. Condoms--if we get to that point. But I’m a believer in delayed gratification for all that I'm also such a fucking lush. So I’m not gonna fuck you tonight. That sound okay?”</p><p>“Yes, condoms--good.” Wow three words. It was a commendable effort.</p><p>“We’re gonna talk more when you’re coherent again, Quentin. You need like, an actual safeword if we do anything more than this. You’re kinda in low power mode though, so we’re gonna keep going if you’re okay. I don’t want to bring you back up just yet--I don’t think you’d love that. So we’re gonna do just what we talked about tonight. Nothing else.” Quentin nodded, his head dropping into the warm curve of Eliot’s neck and shoulder. Eliot was talking like, <em> a lot. </em> “You’ve been so good for me. You want what we talked about, show me how you make yourself feel good?”</p><p>Quentin nodded shakily, “Yeah, yes. I want to do that, for you.”</p><p>“Right then, let’s get you out of these clothes,” Eliot made fluttering hands all across his shoulders, pressing a finger down the open collar of his shirt to play with Quentin’s chest hair. “This has been the <em> biggest </em> tease all night.”</p><p>“Right here?” Quentin asked, hesitantly. “Like now? And you’re just gonna be--” Clothed. While Quentin was naked. The implication was <em> too much </em>.</p><p>“Right here. Like now.” Eliot answered. “Come on, show me how good you can be for me. Take ‘em all off.”</p><p>Quentin nodded, somehow sitting up under his own power. He started with his shirt, feeding each button through its hole, focused on the task at hand and not Eliot’s burning gaze on him. The light breeze through the windows raised goosebumps across his arms and shoulders as he revealed his skin to the elements. He tossed his shirt to the other side of the couch, causing Eliot to make the only sound of disapproval Quentin had <em> ever </em>heard from him.</p><p>“You want to go home with wrinkled clothes so everyone knows what you’ve been up to?” Eliot asked mildly, nodding his head pointedly at the shirt crumpled there.</p><p>“Ugh, maybe? It’s kind of an impressive story so far.” Quentin grumbled and stood up so that he could go get his shirt. He felt somewhat playful now, a tiny return to their familiar banter, somehow also like he wanted to do <em> everything perfect forever </em>for Eliot.</p><p>“Watch it,” Eliot said, though his eyes were warm, amused. He reclined back against the soft arm of the couch in the deep corner there, his legs stretched out for just miles. Beside him, there was a somewhat narrow free space, Quentin wanted to burrow into and make himself fit into the contours of Eliot’s larger body. “<em> Bratty.” </em></p><p>Feeling just like a brat, Quentin replied. “Margo said you like that, that you like guys who misbehave. She said you’re a big old softie.” <em> Tattletale </em>. Like maybe he could be that too since it seemed like he could be any shade of himself around Eliot without him running away.</p><p>Margo hadn’t said that <em> per se </em>, but it was worth it to watch Eliot look incredulous at the comment and then preen a little.</p><p>Quentin folded his shirt and placed it on the arm of the couch for convenience sake alone. His shoes went next, <em> fucking finally </em> and then his socks, which he balled up and stuck inside his shoes like he did when he went to the shore.</p><p>He knew what Eliot <em> saw </em> of course. </p><p>Nothing much to really look at. Just Quentin’s shoulders, which he did think were nicely proportioned, the dark hair on his chest, mirrored by the trail that led down from his belly button and disappeared into the waistband of his pants. His stomach was just nothing to really write home about, not sticking really in or out really, not quite defined and somewhat soft. He was pale despite summer having just ended, Quentin wasn’t one for stripping down to his skin in the sun.</p><p>Of course, there were also several faint (<em> decade old now </em> , fuck) silvery scars down his arms. He hardly noticed them now, could roll up his sleeves and not feel like it was a flashing red sign that told everyone his entire history. But they <em> were </em> there. If Eliot noticed them, he didn’t make any kind of comment.</p><p>“This is so weird.” Quentin mused to himself. Eliot made no reply. He just lounged and <em> watched </em>.</p><p>Quentin couldn’t decide if it was better to get it over with quickly or take his time getting out of his pants and underwear. Both options had their pros and cons. Less time naked verses getting it <em> over with </em>.</p><p>He went for the Band-Aid approach, eyes locked somewhere around Eliot’s knees as he unbuttoned his jeans and stripped them from his legs. He shook them out and gave the pants a brusk fold, resisted the urge to give Eliot a look like, ‘<em> See. There. Folded! </em>’ but he also wanted Eliot to think he was doing a good job.</p><p>Did one <em> really </em> have to fold boxer briefs?</p><p>And <em> how </em> should one fold boxer briefs?</p><p>Quentin concentrated on these questions rather than the sharp awareness that he was <em> naked </em> and Eliot wasn’t. That he was bare for Eliot in more ways than one, so much artifice stripped away. There was no hiding here in the living room of Eliot’s home with its soft, diffused light from several floor lamps and the chandelier in the dining area. </p><p>He couldn’t hide. Not the flush that had crawled down his chest. Not the way that when he’d caught a glimpse of it, his dick was that same shade of embarrassing red where it bobbed up against his stomach.</p><p>So he folded his underwear into a neat little square and stacked them on top of his jeans and shirt, like a little cairn of rocks on a trail to guide him along the path.</p><p>He didn’t attempt to cover his dick, it just never worked out in any of the books he’d written. Hands always ended up moving, revealing, and maybe that was <em> worse </em> than making the attempt to hide himself at all.</p><p>On the couch, Eliot made a rumbling sound of approval.</p><p>Quentin hoped that meant he’d made the right choice in the shower that afternoon while he had an actual existential crisis about what to do about his bodyhair--fucking <em> nothing </em>. Because fuck that.</p><p>“Give us a spin, darling.”</p><p>Quentin’s hands clenched. He swallowed against tightness in his throat, but he wanted to be <em> good </em> . Eliot had said he was good, and so Quentin could be that, be <em> good </em>.</p><p>And so he spun, blushing something fiercer if that were at all possible. He spun in a small circle at the end of the couch, his feet feeling too big, his knees too knobby. Eliot lounging before him like a king. The other man’s eyes were liquid. He looked immensely pleased with himself as Quentin finished his full rotation.</p><p>“That’s perfect, Q. You’re so gorgeous.” Eliot said. Quentin twitched at the praise. It was nice that Eliot gave it, he thought but that didn’t make Quentin really <em> believe </em> any of it.</p><p>Eliot patted the narrow space between his own body and the back of the couch <em> thank god </em>. “Come lay down here with me.”</p><p>Visions of having to just <em> stand there </em> before Eliot while he got himself off--while he came apart at the seams flew from his brain. This was, <em> this was better </em>. He could be on display for Eliot but not far from him--removed.</p><p>Quentin felt like he was in some kind of dream, approaching the couch on coltish legs simply from Eliot <em> looking </em>at him and a few kisses. A bit ungracefully, Quentin climbed up onto the couch and crawled over to Eliot, thinking that the better option than having to straddle the other man to get where he needed to go.</p><p>On his back, pressed between the soft fabric of the back of the couch, and Eliot’s warm body, Quentin felt sheltered, cocooned almost. Eliot rolled over onto his side, head resting on a throw pillow. He prodded Quentin into the position he wanted him in, pillowing Quentin’s head on his own bicep so that Eliot’s hand could card through his hair while the other was free to wander. Quentin stared up at the ceiling, feeling his belly rise and fall shakily with his breathing.</p><p>“You’re okay.” Eliot told him, soothing him. His voice just <em> right there </em> in Quentin’s ear again. He laid a warm, solid hand right there across his stomach. Not moving, or caressing, just steadying. Quentin couldn’t <em> look at it </em> . Eliot’s pinky was like right there, resting on the edge of his navel. <em> So fucking close </em>.</p><p>Jesus, Eliot just had <em> big </em> hands--Quentin wanted to know what it would look like, one of those hands just wrapping around his dick, if it would make him look smaller in comparison. He shivered again.</p><p>Whenever someone whispered in his ear, Quentin always got tingles up and down the backs of his arms and legs. It was some kind of ASMR reaction, and he never really sought it out. It always made him feel so <em> awkward </em> and dirty at parties when the music was too loud, those little pleasurable sparkles wound through him when someone leaned in close to speak. It made a whispered secret in his ear so hard to focus on through the little tingles.</p><p>Margo pressing close and telling him the name of some hot shot publishing figure he should know.</p><p>Eliot slumped all over him, sloppy <em> happy </em> drunk years ago as he went on about Ibiza. Quentin silently losing his mind and trying to keep his eyes open.</p><p>Eliot made that happen everywhere when he spoke this close to Quentin’s ear. All over. He always had.</p><p>Even now.</p><p>“Close your eyes, just focus on me. You’re safe.”</p><p>Breathing in the <em> smoke, citrus, clean cotton </em> of Eliot, Quentin tried to believe that.</p><p>His mind was filling with bubbles, expanding until they took up all the space, until there was nothing to think about but that moment, that he was being <em> good. </em></p><p>He closed his eyes, hands clenching loosely at his sides. Quentin <em> still </em> hadn’t touched Eliot, not really.</p><p>But then Eliot touched <em> him and everything fucking broke apart </em>.</p><p>He picked his hand up from Quentin’s belly and touched him with <em> intention </em>.</p><p>It was just the tip of a single finger that ran a horizontal line from one collar bone to the other, dipping into the notch at the base of Quentin’s throat. Quentin’s mouth fell open, needing to get air more efficiently. He jolted faintly in surprise. Eliot’s chuckle reverberated through Quentin’s whole body.</p><p>“Such a good boy for me.” Eliot said. His voice was like Chatwin’s Torrent, Quentin wanted to dive deep and let it just heal every wrong thing about him. Let the current take him. Drag him under. “Now, let’s paint a picture here. You’re in bed. What are you doing that gets you all hot like this?”</p><p>Quentin whined, turning his face away from Eliot. Even if he couldn’t see the other man’s expression, he could still <em> feel </em> Eliot’s eyes on him. “Nothing--uh nothing’s made me--like this.” A tiny hysterical laugh rolled through him. He tried to still himself, to focus. “ <em> You don’t need to know that. </em> But I guess--I’m reading? Uh--probably reading, yeah.”</p><p>“What are you reading?” Eliot asked. Quentin swore he could feel his lips moving against his hair. “One of your own dirty little books.”</p><p>“Not one of my books!” Quentin squawked. <em> Mortified </em> . “No--that’s not it. That would be like--awful. Authors, they send me books for reviews? Probably one of those if it’s good. I don’t--not that often honestly.” He <em> really </em> didn’t need to be telling Eliot all about sometimes he went just <em> weeks </em> without feeling any kind of spark that caught fire. “Jesus, this is embarrassing--”</p><p>Eliot made an affirmative sound, “Do you imagine it’s you? Imagine your one of the characters?”</p><p>Quentin shook his head, “Sometimes? I guess yeah.”</p><p>Eliot’s hand swept over his chest and belly in fleeting little teasing touches, making it impossible to concentrate.</p><p>“So there you are in your little bed, all on your own. How do you start?”</p><p>Quentin had no memory before this moment. His hand restlessly caught Eliot’s up by his head, unthinking as he wove their fingers together, needing that grounding touch.</p><p>“Slowly--slow.” Quentin said, nodding to himself. Eliot squeezed his hand encouragingly. Was he actually, <em> actually </em> going to have to ask for it? Yes, he supposed if he followed the rules. “Can I?”</p><p>“Oh, <em> baby </em>.” Eliot squirmed closer, pressing his lips hard to the hinge of Quentin’s jaw, “Go ahead, you earned it. You’re all messy, dripping for me--touch yourself.”</p><p>A sweet rush exploded in his chest at Eliot’s words. He took himself in hand, feeling himself pulse weakly having finally gotten some attention. He was <em> dripping </em> all over himself. <em> Fuck </em> . And Eliot <em> liked </em> it, pressed himself against Quentin until his hot, hard erection was grinding against Quentin’s bare hip.</p><p>Quentin kept his eyes firmly closed, Eliot <em> knew </em> , knew it was hard for him to do the eye contact thing. Biting his lip to keep in the sounds--the sounds that never manifested this quickly when he was alone, mind you--Quentin stroked himself slowly, long up and down motions slick with the evidence of what a mess Eliot had made of him. He pushed away the idea of what he <em> looked </em> like, all red-faced and squirmy, pained as his eyebrows pulled together.</p><p>He lost himself in the waves of pleasure wracking his body, his hand still clenching Eliot’s own wanting to bring the other man’s fingers to his own lips, to taste them. Use them to keep all the noises at bay.</p><p>And so, doing the brave thing--he did.</p><p>He didn’t fucking <em> ask </em>. Maybe that wasn’t okay.</p><p>Quentin kissed whatever part of Eliot’s hand he could <em> reach </em> , sucked on the firm skin at the base of his thumb. <em> Asking </em> just not with words.</p><p>Eliot’s breath hitched, <em> message fucking  </em> <em>received</em> as Quentin welcomed two of those long, agile fingers into his mouth. “Fuck, <em> peach </em> .” Eliot positively growled as Quentin latched on, sucking on his finger and somehow still leaking out all these embarrassing <em> noises </em>. “This what you do? Have to get something in that mouth of yours to keep yourself busy?”</p><p>He curled his fingers in Quentin’s mouth, petting them over over Quentin’s tongue, pulling them out and pressing back in--simulating--fuck what it would be like if Quentin could just--but it would be so much <em> bigger </em> , his mouth would have to stretch. <em> Sweet lord </em>, his jaw would ache with it, with all of it. Eliot teaching him how to take it--what he liked.</p><p>“Q, baby. I asked you a question. Just because this mouth’s all stuffed full doesn't mean I don’t want an answer.” Eliot’s voice was a dark, curling thing. He pressed down, pulling Quentin’s mouth open, pulling out and away. Quentin whimpered. He held Quentin’s jaw then, between his wet fingers and thumb.</p><p>He swore he almost came right then, body rolling with a spike of inexplicable <em> hunger </em>.</p><p>“--The rule, you said,” Quentin’s words were frantic, running together. Aware of how his jaw moved against the resistance of Eliot holding him, just how he wanted Quentin. “You said, unless I was occupied--with my mouth--then I didn’t have to, <em> please.” </em></p><p>Eliot fucking chuckled. “Good, smart, <em> infuriating </em> boy.” he said, kind of shaking Quentin’s face playfully back and forth. Quentin’s brain was quickly picking up on the fact that he liked being <em> moved </em> like, far too much. A stupid amount. He shuddered in Eliot’s hold, feeling another blurt of precum well out of him onto his belly. “Indulge me anyway, you like stuffing this mouth full even when you’re by yourself? Want me to put them back?”</p><p>Quentin let go of his dick then, brought both of his hands to hold onto Eliot’s forearm, squeezing because he <em> needed </em> , “Yes! <em> Please. </em>”</p><p>Eliot pressed so close Quentin could feel the buttons of his vest pressing into the vulnerable skin over his ribs, leaving indentations. He dragged Quentin’s face to his own, kissed his half open mouth.</p><p>He pulled away with a groan, trailing wet, smacking kissed all across Quentin’s face.</p><p>“I’ll give ‘em back. There you go, baby.” Eliot said. He said the fucking <em> dirtiest  </em>things in the sweetest voice. But then Quentin couldn’t contemplate much else than Eliot pressing his fingers back into his mouth with a shushing sound.</p><p>“I can see it,” Eliot growled, using those fingers in Quentin’s mouth to pull his face towards him, so he could watch Quentin just fall apart, “You under the covers just writhing and needy, your hand moving up and down on that sweet cock of yours. So good and slow. Making it last for yourself. You’re so good to yourself, drawing it out like this. Making it special. Go on, keep touching yourself for me.”</p><p>It was then that Quentin realized he was still holding onto Eliot tightly with both hands, curling into the crisp cotton of his shirt, getting it all messy from the tacky precum drying on his palms--his fucking dick all forgotten even while it was needily calling for attention between his legs. He let go, reluctantly and took hold of himself again. His other hand just kind of flailing, landing absently on his hitching belly.</p><p>Quentin nodded, trying to show Eliot how good he could be with every wet wracking breath he took. He could hear himself, all the sounds of his pleasure. The slurping-<em> gross hot </em> --of his mouth as he tried to show Eliot-- <em> this is what I’d do to you, if you told me to, if you’d let me </em>. The wet squirmy sounds of his hand moving on his cock up and down, closing his fist just around the head and just thumbing over the head over and over as licks up flame shot up and down his thighs, gathering in the very core of him.</p><p>He wanted so much for Eliot to press him down onto the couch with his body until he couldn’t move. For Eliot to <em> watch </em> . Watch him from somewhere <em> in </em> Quentin’s bedroom. Sitting on the chair by the closet that was usually littered with clothes to be put away. He wanted Eliot there all pressed and buttoned up and <em> watching </em> while Quentin fell apart under the covers. What it would be like for his hands to move under that camouflage so Eliot could only <em> guess </em> what he was doing based on the sounds he tried to hold back--the expressions he pressed into his pillowcase. Having to truly keep his hands to himself while Eliot watched. <em> Fuck. </em></p><p>Eliot pressed in again with his fingers, pulling Quentin’s jaw down again, and <em> fuck </em> he was drooling and messy and a line of it escaped the corner of his lips, making a mad dash for <em> the couch. </em></p><p>Fuck!</p><p>“--<em> your couch!” </em></p><p>“<em> Fuck the couch, </em> that’s what the steam cleaner is for--” Eliot said and the worry went out of him like a puff of smoke.</p><p>Quentin let out a strangled groan as Eliot pulled his fingers from Quentin’s mouth, trailing down his throat slickly to circle and play at his chest and nipples. He sounded fucking <em> wounded </em> to his own ears. Quentin squirmed even more, jostling Eliot at the sweet confusing pleasure the other man drew from his body.</p><p>“You’re so hot for me, peach.” Eliot said, his lips pressed squarely against the side of Quentin’s face so he could <em> feel </em> it. <em> Peach? </em> Where’d that come from? “So wet for me and messy. All pink and <em> lovely </em>. How are you feeling? Give me a color.”</p><p>A color? What the fuck--how could Eliot not <em> know </em>?</p><p>“So--fucking <em> green </em> .” Quentin somehow replied, panting between each word. He tensed all over, his muscles coiling, his balls aching, so <em> needy. </em> “ <em> Please </em> , fucking <em> touch me </em>. You said--I--need, please? --Speed up?”</p><p>Eliot’s fingernails lightly scraped over his chest, Quentin’s body nearly bowed off the couch. A heavy leg pressed over his own, keeping him contained. Fuck, he was <em> surrounded. </em> He felt frantic with it.</p><p>Eliot let him live in what felt like a lifetime of agonizing <em> waiting </em> as he plucked at Quentin’s nipples and mouthed at his jaw and Quentin wanted to <em> see </em> the marks he left behind in the mirror, press into them to feel the phantom pleasure and pain of them.</p><p>“Not yet--” Eliot said, denying him now. Quentin wanted to beg--maybe actually begged. “I want to just keep watching you like this. Would you do that? Let me watch you for hours and hours, be so good for me?”</p><p>
  <em> “Fuck, yes!” </em>
</p><p>And fuck any thoughts to if that was even <em> possible </em> . Anything felt like it could happen here like this, his body on fire, just <em> feeling </em> so good. Being good.</p><p>“What else do you do, Quentin?” Eliot asked. “Do you fuck yourself open with one of these sweet hands?”</p><p>Quentin whined, nodded. Remembered. “Uh-huh. <em> Sometimes </em>.”</p><p>Eliot made a rough, low sound. He licked up the side of Quentin’s neck. Quentin wanted him to set his teeth there and just dig <em> in </em> . “I bet that’s a real <em> sight </em>. You want me to fuck you sometime?”</p><p>Quentin cried out, having to halt his hand on his dick, hold himself tightly at the base, left panting at the thought of it. “You’re so <em> big </em>.” That’s all there was to say.</p><p>“That’s not an answer, peach. Be good.”</p><p>Quentin took a few great big heaving breaths. “I’ll be--yes. Make me take it--<em> wanna.” </em></p><p>Eliot kissed him again. Well, not so much kissed him as fucked into his mouth with his tongue while Quentin shorted out like a Furby left out in the rain. He was twitching, little shocks of pleasure catching the weirdest little muscle groups by surprise.</p><p>It had never been this--</p><p>How had it never been this <em> good? </em></p><p>Eliot pulled away then, left him with a goodbye nip to his lower lip that smarted sharply.</p><p>“Okay, you can speed up for me. But I need something from you. I need you to open your eyes for me. I want to see those pretty eyes of yours. Can you do that?” Eliot said. His other hand swept down and grasped Quentin’s wrist, guiding him to stroke himself faster, letting him.</p><p>Pleasure was building and building like a steam engine, there would be no stopping it for anything on the tracks. Quentin panted brokenly in his own pleasure, Eliot let go of his wrist and pinched a nipple and the quick, surprising shock of pain coursed through him, cutting through the coolness across his skin with heat. Quentin cried out at the shock of it at how it radiated in the same place as the <em> good, hot, more </em> tension that was pulsing through him.</p><p>“Quentin stop.” Eliot said firmly.</p><p>Quentin, acting against every instinct in his body, stilled his hand, clenched hard around the base of his cock to <em> stop </em> . He keened, frustration making his eyes prickle. Wanting wanting wanting to be <em> good. </em></p><p>“Quentin, I asked you a question.” Eliot said, his own breathing was rapid. Quentin felt it where their bodies were fused together. “We have a rule about that.”</p><p>If he opened his eyes, he’d have to <em> see </em> . Have to look at Eliot and look into those eyes of his. It also meant that he'd be <em> seen </em>, and there would be no going back from that, not if Eliot looked straight through him while he came.</p><p>“I--um,” Quentin stuttered. Eliot’s hand wrapped back wrapped around his wrist, it squeezed once and Quentin could swear he felt that right through to his dick where it was painfully throbbing in the needy place between his legs. “Eliot, <em> please </em>.”</p><p>Eliot’s nose was pressed right against his temple, at the place where Quentin’s hair was damp with sweat. He breathed in deeply, taking in pure <em> Quentin </em> . “You can do this for me. I know you’re scared. But remember what you said, doing the <em> scary </em> thing is good--for you. It means next time you’ll know it’s <em> okay </em>. I want to see you fall apart while you come all over yourself. Let me see those pretty eyes, peach. Can you do that for me? Give me a color.”</p><p>Quentin opened his eyes. Though the room was fairly low lit, after so long in the dark of his own making, it felt like looking into the sun. Quentin had to blink several times to focus. A hot little tear fell out of the corner of one eye and rolled down the side of his face. Eliot pressed his lips to it.</p><p>Quentin may have actually fucking died for about a millisecond.</p><p>When Eliot pulled back, Quentin breathed through the onslaught of warring pleasure in his body to look upon his face. How his eyes were so dilated that there was a faint ring of green-brown around an expansive black pupil. His lips were flushed and parted. He looked <em> enraptured </em> by what he was seeing.</p><p>And that just about broke Quentin open. Why was he crying all of a sudden? Why was he crying while he felt so <em> good </em>? Still, he was swallowing against that hard feeling in his throat, the familiar prickle of tears forming in his eyes.</p><p>“--El, it’s-- <em>i’mgreen.</em> <em>Please.”</em></p><p>“There you are.” Eliot said, fondly. “It’s okay. You’re okay. And you’re so good for me. Are you ready to come for me?”</p><p>Quentin nodded frantically. <em> “Eliot.” </em></p><p>That seemed like an answer enough for the other man. Eliot moved his hand on his wrist so that Quentin’s palm could glide through the mess of his own precum slicking the way. Faster. He squeezed himself tighter. Quentin’s breath hitched. He was fucking shaking as the tension inside of him rose up.</p><p>“Whenever you're ready, Peach. Let me see it. Come for me.” Eliot said, keeping his eyes firmly on Quentin’s face. His leg pressed Quentin down more firmly into the couch while all he wanted to do was raise his knees up and just <em> open. </em> Eliot’s own erection, hot and hard through his trousers pressed firmly into Quentin’s hip. He rocked against it.</p><p>“Can I?” Quentin asked, his voice cracking. His vision kept blurring around the edges. It didn’t compute that he <em> got to have this </em> now. That it was time.</p><p>“Yes, make a mess for me. You’re perfect.”</p><p>“Really?” Quentin asked again.</p><p>Eliot snorted and kissed him, Quentin unable to do anything but let his mouth fall open while Eliot swept his tongue deep inside.</p><p>“Go on, whenever you want. You’ve been so good for me.”</p><p>It took some time. Sometimes that happened. Their faces so close together on the couch, Eliot spoke soft praise at him, practically into Quentin’s mouth where it was panting and open. Quentin was still leaking stupid weird tears even though it was <em> so good </em>. Eliot stayed with him, told him he was alright and beautiful and about a million things that had to be true if Eliot was saying them.</p><p>Eliot, who wanted to look deep into Quentin’s soul when he came. </p><p>Eliot who wasn’t going to fuck him because he wanted to <em> wait </em>.</p><p>Eliot who forced his hand at <em> telling </em>.</p><p>Eliot, who was still holding onto Quentin’s wrist, moving it by proxy along his cock, pulling his hair and then soothing him in turns when that made Quetin shiver and cry out.</p><p>Eliot, whose eyes went huge and bright when Quentin finally came.</p><p>Quentin’s hand moved faster, his mouth snapped shut as it happened. He practically seized with it, with the undertow that pulled him under and battered him about with a massive current of pleasure. He came, spurting all over his belly, feeling it land in hot streaks in the cool air of the apartment. Watching Eliot watch him through all of it until--</p><p>Quentin let out a strangled, pained sound as his orgasm passed through him and then the aftershocks that made his dick twitch with the addictive sensation of <em> toomuchnotenough. </em>Sometimes he could--right after just keep going until it confused his nerves into coming again--</p><p>Did he <em> want that? </em></p><p>He only had to ask.</p><p>Quentin felt wrung out, he stopped his hand, let it be over.</p><p>If Eliot wanted--</p><p>There was <em> time </em>.</p><p>Quentin completely unspooled beside Eliot, his hand loosely wrapped around his dick. Limbs long and loose. Eliot, looking worryingly playful, guided him one last time, one long, slow sweeping stroke that lit up shocky too much pleasure through his entire nervous system. His belly jumped at the feeling. Quentin’s knees pressed up against Eliot’s leg, only to be forced back down to just <em> feel it </em>.</p><p>“El--<em> fuck. Too much.” </em></p><p>Then Eliot was murmuring words and apologies into the thin skin of his temple, speaking them straight into Quentin’s brain for safe keeping. He pulled Quentin’s hand away from his own softening dick and held it before Quentin’s face, a silent question.</p><p>Fucking mind-reading, <em> magician. </em> Who’d studied Quentin’s little checklist <em> thoroughly. </em> He knew.</p><p>Quentin blearily looked at his own hand, the broad palm and fingers littered with the pearlescent streaks of his own come. He wanted it for himself, that evidence that he’d been good and perfect for Eliot. Licking his own fingers clean through hitching, tear-filled breaths, Quentin felt just <em> empty </em>. A good, lolling, happy emptiness. There was just this, the somewhat bitter taste of his own making, the thrumming of his taffy-like body, and Eliot talking and talking and talking though Quentin couldn’t make sense of any of it.</p><p>Eliot pressed kisses to his cheeks as Quentin worked his own hand clean with his mouth. It was <em> debauched </em> how those chaste kisses made him feel so shy while he did something so dirty, but it felt <em> right </em> . The only thing that would have made it better was if it had been <em> Eliot's hand. </em> Still, it felt good.</p><p>It felt free.</p><p>Quentin breathed heavily, physically content and wrung out. </p><p>He was still <em> crying </em> somehow, little keening sounds breaking through as he finished with his hand and just wanting <em> everything </em> from Eliot.</p><p>That wasn’t--</p><p>He felt so relaxed now that the aftershocks had ended and the sweat was drying in his hair and why was he--</p><p>Crying and sniffling and feeling overwhelmed despite being so happy that it was stupid--</p><p>“I don’t know why--sorry.” he said, trying to articulate, <em> apologize </em> for being so fucking weird all the time.</p><p>Eliot just tugged him carefully closer, hitched his leg a little tighter, a rough breath punched out and <em> shit </em> --Eliot’s <em> leg </em>. </p><p>He should--</p><p>Quentin could--</p><p>“It’s okay. This is totally normal. You were so good for me. You’re perfect, <em> Q. </em> You have no fucking, clue--” Eliot said into Quentin’s hair. He pulled a blanket off the couch and threw it over Quentin’s naked body. Quentin burrowed down into the space between Eliot’s chest and the couch, he could cry down there. He could breathe in the smell of his own sweat and Eliot’s musk. Just hide. Eliot rubbed Quentin’s back through the rough, hitching breaths and told him it was okay.</p><p>Told him to <em> let it out </em> like he was a little kid again. And Quentin had always been a bit weepy so he just <em> did. </em> Eliot just held him and held him until he could breathe again. Everything was still fuzzy and made from spun sugar in Quentin’s brain when he surfaced, acutely aware of the two wet patches on Eliot’s shirt and waistcoat where he’d fucking <em> cried like a baby </em>.</p><p>Eliot smiled down at him, thumbed below his eyes tenderly and then kissed him between his eyebrows, smoothing out the furrowed skin there.</p><p>“People cry, Q. Sometimes they laugh. Or pass the fuck out, asleep. Or any number of things.” Eliot said. Quentin didn’t like to think about <em> other </em> people like this with Eliot. </p><p>Quentin sniffed, looking down once again at Eliot’s clothes, how he was wrinkled and mused now. How he was still fucking hard in his pants.</p><p>Quentin made a questioning sound, “You haven’t--Can I--do you, want me to?”</p><p>Eliot shook his head. “No, baby. You can’t. Not tonight, okay?”</p><p>“--But I want to--” Quentin swore, if he could just get his limbs to cooperate or just his mouth on him--he could. It would feel so <em> good </em>.</p><p>“Quentin, I need you to focus up for a minute. Nothing is wrong--we just aren’t going to do anything more tonight until we can talk about it. We agreed to that.” Eliot said firmly. There was no teasing. His eyes searched Quentin’s face for recognition.</p><p>“That’s not fair--uh to you.” Quentin protested, usually able to argue much more efficiently when he hadn’t lost all of his brain cells through his dick. Still probably all snotty and definitely whiny he tried again, “Really--I could just--”</p><p>“No Quentin.” Eliot shook his head, took Quentin’s hands in his own, kissed the backs of both of them like a promise. Disappointment flashed through Quentin despite himself. “That was enough--watching you, that was what I needed. That was a fucking gift. I’ll let you get your mouth on me soon enough. Hungry boy.”</p><p>Well, that was a new, if not utterly life-destroying but accurate pet name.</p><p>Quentin huffed, “When I said I liked it when you told me ‘No.’ this wasn’t what I was expecting.</p><p>Eliot growled at him and mused his hair beyond repair. Quentin tried to get over his own fuzzy disappointment at not getting to suck Eliot’s dick, not knowing what it tasted like.</p><p>“Let’s get you cleaned up.”</p><p>Quentin didn’t want to.</p><p>He didn’t want to <em> stay </em> messy. It was complicated. Quentin only knew he didn’t want to <em> leave </em> this space they’d made.</p><p>Quentin nodded muzzily, rubbing the back of his hand over his own itchy, red eyes in something like annoyance. Eliot hissed under his breath, uncoiling his leg from over Quentin’s. Quentin nearly whimpered in sympathy. He kept his hands to himself, didn’t know if he was <em> allowed </em> to wrap himself around Eliot like the other man did for Quentin. Didn’t want to push.</p><p>He let Eliot press Quentin up to sitting. Then, Eliot swung his legs out over the edge of the couch, setting his hands on his own knees for a moment, his eyes closed. Quentin kneeled up and shifted off the couch until he was standing right there next to him, stupid blanket around his shoulders. It was going to need to be washed.</p><p>“Eliot?” he asked, his voice small among the traffic sounds outside.</p><p>Eliot looked up at him, a somewhat chagrined expression crossing his face. His eyes went a little faraway for a moment. He took a breath in and then let it out steadily. “Sorry, peach. I’m gonna need a hand here, okay?”</p><p>“Anything.” Quentin offered, reaching down, offering Eliot his arm.</p><p>Eliot grasped onto him with that strong hand of his, using the leverage as well as his other arm pushing off the couch to stand. He leaned on Quentin as they walked slowly to the hallway where Quentin assumed the bathroom and bedrooms were. Three doors, of course Eliot had a spare room in this fucking huge apartment. The bastard.</p><p>So did <em> Quentin </em>, but he was pretty sure his apartment used to be some kind of drug laundering stash house.</p><p>They made their way down the hall to the last door at the end. Eliot pushed it open. Now <em> this </em> had been what he expected. A rich swath of tapestries hanging from the walls and ceiling. A big, sprawling bed high enough off the ground that Eliot didn’t have to bend much to get into or out of it. Unlit scented candles all over the place. An antique mirror over a bureau in the corner, that may have been suspiciously turned towards the bed.</p><p>Eliot practically sighed in relief when they made it there, he sat himself up by the headboard, motioning for Quentin to join him.</p><p>Quentin looked down at the mess of himself even in his blanket and Eliot’s nice dark teal duvet, feeling like he kinda wanted to cry again.</p><p>“Come here, you’re fine.” Eliot made grabby hands at him again, pulling him up onto the bed, on his back beside Eliot. Then, like an actual magician he produced a warm, damp hand towel from somewhere in the vicinity of the bedside table. Quentin’s mouth fell open comically as Eliot rubbed him down with it. He kept his touch brief and kinda clinical. Perfunctory as he wiped away Quentin’s mess, trailing once over where he was soft now between his legs. “Come on, like you don’t have a towel warmer for shaving?”</p><p>Quentin laughed at the sheer audacity of it. “No?”</p><p>Eliot finished cleaning Quentin up, throwing the towel at a hamper near the door, uncaring when it landed perfectly. He reached over and pulled the corner of a fleecy throw blanket back over Quentin. Despite that, Quentin shivered.</p><p>“I’m sorry about this--” Eliot said, motioning to his left leg. “Late in the day--things can escalate <em> quickly </em>. I should have--planned better? It wasn’t--I was a little careless.”</p><p>Quentin bristled at that, looked up at Eliot sitting next to him while Quentin was curled up at his side still fucking <em> naked </em> . “That--that’s okay. You’re not--careless.” Quentin said, still feeling tender. He didn’t want Eliot to think that about himself when he’d been <em> perfect. </em></p><p>And because Eliot made him brave and kind of orgasm drunk, he said it out loud, “You were perfect.”</p><p>Eliot just stared down at him, squeezed his shoulder and then looked away for a moment.</p><p>“You sure are something, Quentin Coldwater.” Eliot said in a strange voice that he really couldn’t decipher.</p><p>“I’m not--” Quentin protested, feeling a little squirmy, more and more naked as time passed.</p><p>“It’s great. You are.” Eliot said, no room for argument. He sighed and shook his head, attention back on Quentin. “I’m supposed to do this part but I’m gonna need you to be good one last time for me? Okay?”</p><p>“Yeah, anything.” Quentin said, meaning it.</p><p>Eliot shook his head at him, ran a hand through his own carefully styled hair in a bit of frustration. </p><p>“We’ll unpack that later.” he said mildly, Quentin felt a bit oblivious. “I’d like you to get out of bed for me, go grab that robe--” he pointed at a printed silk kimono hanging on a hook by the door, “and put it on so you’re all nice and warm. Then go back to the kitchen and bring us a big bottle of water from the fridge, the box from the bakery you brought me, a glass and a fork. There’s a tray on top of the fridge you can use. Can you do that?”</p><p>“Sure.” Quentin volunteered. He sat up and kept the blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he got up and off the bed, somehow shy once again.</p><p>Instructions he could follow--had followed for Eliot before. Quentin walked to the door and took the kimono down, hurriedly wrapping it around his shoulders and cinching up the belt around his middle. </p><p>He stopped at the bathroom in the hallway because nature was calling. Of course it looked newly remodeled. There was a frankly huge bathtub taking up most of the room, a rail installed in the white subway tile wall for Eliot to get into and out of the tub safely.</p><p>Alone, in the kitchen, Quentin couldn’t help but look over at the couch a little forlornly. He didn’t know why but he felt kind of weird and broken looking at it now that he wasn’t lying there pressed safely into Eliot’s side. </p><p>Quentin gathered what Eliot had told him, put it all on a tray and took it back to the bedroom.</p><p>“That’s perfect,” Eliot said, making a grab for the water and glass on the tray. Quentin set it down for him on the bedside table, watching Eliot shake a few pills from an economy sized bottle of over the counter pain medication. He knocked them back with a sip of water from the single glass Quentin had brought. “Come here, peach. Let me wrap my big strong arms around you.” he said, patting the bed beside him once again.</p><p>Quentin blushed, “Why ‘peach’?”</p><p>“Your ass, while perfectly proportional to you in every single way, also somewhat resembles a peach--plus it’s kinda fuzzy.” Eliot told him conversationally as he opened the box, cooing at the torte inside. Quentin preened despite his embarrassment at being compared to a fruit--even if it was one of the cuter ones.</p><p>Eliot pulled him into his side, his arm around his shoulders, Quentin kept his hands folded in his lap, nervously wringing them.</p><p>“I’m sure you know all about this part. From your books. I get to spoil you now--aftercare.” Eliot said, keeping his voice low for just the two of them. He cut into the corner of the torte with the fork in his hand and held it up in offering to Quentin’s lips. Quentin looked up at him, alarmed. Eliot raised a quiet eyebrow. Quentin opened his lips and accepted the bite of perfectly toasted almonds, fluffy cake, custard, and smooth, glossy buttercream. </p><p>He felt warm and content again as Eliot spun a spell over the two of them.</p><p>Eliot smiled down at him fondly and chatted to him while he fed them both the little torte. He told Quentin over and over in so many different ways how good he’d been, how beautiful his body was all stretched out beside Eliot, and about all the pretty, broken sounds he’d made for them. Quentin said nothing, but buried his head in Eliot’s chest at any particularly tender thing Eliot lavished upon him.</p><p>He passed Quentin the glass of water every now and then, encouraging him with little sounds that did <em> things </em> to Quentin’s spent dick in the kimono. Quentin just felt small, and warm, and weirdly quiet of all things.</p><p>Quentin did know this part. He’d read about it, didn’t remember a lick of any of the information he’d learned.</p><p>What he knew was how it <em> felt </em> to be there in Eliot’s arms, letting him take care of Quentin, lull his nervous system back down at an acceptable baseline. Let Eliot take care of him, while he was privately full of sparks at how he got to take care of <em> Eliot </em> in some small way before. Serve him. Help him.</p><p>He could barely keep his eyes open through the whole thing for all that it stretched on and on and on. Like he’d run a marathon and there was no pain after just the satisfaction of victory. Quentin melted into Eliot’s side, nosing the space where Eliot’s pec would be if he still didn’t have <em> all of his clothes on </em>.</p><p>Soon enough, the torte was gone but for a few crumbs that Eliot chased around with his finger and then offered to Quentin, a private little curl to his lips when Quentin looked up at him incredulously, because he <em> knew </em> that’s what Quentin liked. So Quentin licked the last bits of caramelized sugar and almonds from Eliot’s fingertips, his heart ratcheting up again.</p><p>Eliot set the plate down on the bedside table, ran a hand through Quentins hair, oh he just wanted to <em> arch into it </em>. Then Eliot hit Quentin with a serious question. “Wanna hop into the bath, baby? Or are you feeling too sleepy?”</p><p>Quentin bristled now fully awake, “I’m uh--I’m clean. I’m fine. Thanks.” Did that mean he was going to get sent home soon? To sleep in his own cold bed across a whole river. </p><p>Quentin had returned to himself over the last lazy hour of being chatted to and cuddled close on Eliot’s chest. Now he felt somewhat bereft at the idea of <em> alone. </em></p><p>Eliot hummed fondly, “Bath’s not for you--it's for me, peach. Need to get some heat on my joints. You're little, you can fit too. Plus it’s good, skin to skin and all that.”</p><p>Well, shit. That meant miles and miles of naked Eliot. Wet, naked Eliot--his heart leapt.</p><p>“Uh--yes. I mean, yeah. Yes to the bath.”</p><p>“Good boy.”</p><p>
  <em> To the bath! </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>FYI except the next chapters to take a bit longer. I kind of jumped the gun posting this. Thank you so much for reading! Here's to earning that explicit rating finally!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Bath Salts and Page Six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>WOW so, thank you for being so kind about last chapter! I was very nervous to post. Here's the afterward, in the worlds of Quentin,</p><p>'To the bath!'</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Between his throbbing hip, his fucking <em> persistent </em> erection, and one wet <em> squirmy </em> Quentin Coldwater pressed against his back in the tub, Eliot was in a special <em> hell </em> of his own making. Good thing he’d brought a fucking hand-basket.</p><p>But it just <em> had </em> to be done. If not for the fact that the heat and the water <em> was </em> making a dent in his discomfort, also because he didn’t <em> know if he’d get it again </em> . If he could ask Quentin if he wanted to join him and Quentin would look miserable and yet thrilled at the prospect of being confined to a bathtub with Eliot for the foreseeable future. Eliot didn’t know--wouldn’t know if Quentin wanted more of this until they were <em> both </em> in the right headspace to talk about it.</p><p>Re: persistent erection. Seriously, it had flagged during aftercare. Eliot, too preoccupied with Quentin and his little twitches and soft sighs. </p><p><em> Jesus </em> , his sturdy little body, littered with more hair than Eliot had been expecting. And how Eliot had wanted to just stick his face right into the sweet crease of his pale thighs and suck a deep purple bruise into his skin. The <em> sounds</em>. Oh! And the confirmation that Quentin’s oral fixation wasn’t just for worrying his own lips, or chewing on pens and cocktail straws.</p><p>His frankly perfectly curved dick.</p><p>Yeah, it had been a real effort to not <em> do anything </em>, to stop Quentin’s desperate little attempt to get Eliot off.</p><p>Then, thank <em> god </em> there had been the distraction of running the water and mixing in epsom salts, and fretting over Quentin to get him <em> in the tub. </em>Eliot had stripped down with brusk efficiency by the sink, throwing his pants over the towel rail so they wouldn’t crease along with his tie, everything else thrown into the laundry basket by the door.</p><p>Quentin looking at him like <em> oh, so </em> you <em> don’t have to fold your clothes then </em>.</p><p>Standing there, the chill of the tile floor creeping into his feet and up his calves, Eliot knew what Quentin saw. He’d spent what was probably years preening in the mirror, appreciating his own nakedness from every angle he could manage. Eliot was a vain bitch. </p><p>The scar, was an unfortunate addition. The surgical scar ran in a vertical line down his left side, started at iliac crest and extended all the way down past the joint a bit, some 5 or 6 inches long, not that Eliot was into measurements. A fucking lie. It was 5 3/8 inches long. No longer as red and angry as it had been thanks to Margo and her not at all FDA approved scar treatments, the skin was still shiny and pink in that way that scars were to call out their existence.</p><p>So he’d been naked, in front of Quentin. Maybe a bit to give Quentin that memory. But also because his hip <em> fucking hurt </em> and the thought of sending Quentin home right now stung like a lash.</p><p>Eliot had been for once, glad he was soft enough to not give Quentin a fucking heart attack when his dick was like a foot away from his face to climb into the tub. Best not to shock him with the fact that Eliot was somehow a grower <em> and </em> a shower. He was kinda surprised Quentin hadn’t just fallen on him mouth fucking open right then and there. Somewhat disappointed.</p><p>But then the <em> bath</em>.</p><p>And while it was a <em> large </em> bath to accommodate Eliot's height, it wasn’t as though they could sit in it side by side. They <em> could </em> have sat at opposite ends, his feet in Quentin’s lap, but he didn’t want to be that <em> far </em> . He couldn’t sit down with Quentin in <em> his </em> lap--besides doing nothing to help his hip if there was 100 plus pounds of boy resting on him, it would have taken all the control he had not to take Quentin up on his offer to <em> give him a hand</em>. Or a mouth. Or put his own hands down into the water to wring another orgasm out of Coldwater until he was twitching and begging him off again.</p><p>It didn’t take a fucking scientist to know that Quentin wanted to get his stupid gorgeous mouth on everything. Or that Eliot was kind of huge slut and wanted to get his hands everywhere on Quentin.</p><p>And Eliot was being a <em> good dom </em> . Setting limits. Setting Quentin up for a good outcome. Not pushing him too far (just yet, fuck they needed to <em> talk </em> ). <em> See there, Margo </em>. He could do the denial thing.</p><p>So in a roundabout way that’s how Eliot ended up between Quentin’s spread thighs in the tub, leaning back against Quentin’s solid, compact chest. His own legs all straightened under the water, flexing his toes absently in the heat. Soaking.</p><p>Quentin--Quentin was kind of all squeezed up behind Eliot, his legs folded on either side of Eliot’s body, hairy, lovely knees poking up in the water for Eliot to rest his hands on like this was his throne. The other man’s arms bracketed Eliot’s, resting on the cool porcelain edge of the tub. The fact that he could actually <em> do that</em>, bend himself all up like that without a thought--it was-well it made Eliot a little stupidly wistful. The things he used to <em> do.</em> Like Cirque Du Soleil shit.</p><p>Eliot rested his own head back a little on the solid shoulder of the man behind him. He looked up at Quentin as best he could upside down.</p><p>There was a faint pink mark on the underside of his jaw. They both had a bit of beard burn from Eliot crushing his face against Quentin’s. He should have really gone all in, left a mark there that said, <em> ‘I got chewed on by Eliot Waugh and all I got was this hickie’. </em> Alas.</p><p>Eliot wanted to lean up and scrape his teeth against that mark; but again <em> reformed</em>. <em> Down boy. </em></p><p>It was just <em> best </em> that neither one of them get all worked up again.</p><p>This was the comedown, after all. And if Quentin didn’t want to do this again, well Eliot had enough material to fill his little head for <em> decades </em> despite the fact that all he’d really done was wind Quentin up and watch him go to town on himself. It had been a revelation, so fucking beautiful and hot. So many things.</p><p>And now Quentin was quiet behind him in the tub, his breathing moving Eliot up and down gently on his chest.</p><p><em> Fuck </em> , what was he gonna do if Quentin didn’t want <em> more </em> ? Eliot wanted a hell of a lot more. And oddly, not even just the parts where Quentin was messily fucking felating his fingers or asking so prettily if he could come-- <em> if Eliot was sure </em> --over and over to get it through his atypical blissed-out brain. Quentin’s strong forearm under his hand as he helped him to the bedroom, Eliot leaning on him and love/hating it. Because <em> that was his job. </em> But also the part where they’d been in the kitchen while Eliot was showing off and Quentin was smirking into his wine glass.</p><p><em> What the fuck</em>?</p><p>“Are you--is your hip--are you feeling any better?” Quentin asked, breaking the silence. Eliot looked away from the other man and down at how his own chest broke the water, bracketed by Quentin’s hairy thighs.</p><p>“A lot better,” Eliot cleared his throat. “I usually try to plan more, prepare. Thank you for your help--for everything.”</p><p>Eliot felt Quentin lean his head over until his temple rested on Eliot’s head. “I get it--I’m sure you know that I um, sometimes--you know, how sometimes I get really depressed?” Eliot nodded, his heart thumping along, his thumbs absently rubbing up and down along the inside of Quentin’s knee joints. He knew enough by proxy of Margo. The fucking rescue mission to get him out of the Poconos. “I just--can’t get out of bed. Like everything hurts all over and I can’t move. So I’m not saying that’s--that’s obviously different since you were in an accident and I’m just--”</p><p>Jesus, did he have to be so <em> earnest? </em> About everything? All the time?</p><p>“It’s okay, Q.” Eliot reached up a damp hand and patted Quentin’s silky head absently, wanting to quash it. God, he was turning into a bitter old queen. “It’s just not what I wanted,” <em> for our first time, </em>“for you this time. You shouldn’t have to worry about me--”</p><p>Eliot had fucking tried--he’d <em> tried</em>. Tried to rest throughout the day. Even had Margo come over and help him stretch out so he could avoid <em> this. </em> This nice but somewhat glaring example of what life was like for Eliot now. Things had to be taken into account about his limitations. How mobile was he gonna have to be that day? The next day? What was the weather going to be like? Was there somewhere he could fucking <em> sit </em> or rest?</p><p>It was so fucking frustrating for a guy like Eliot who’d only ever made plans based on cover charges and cheap flights to Europe.</p><p>Next, was supposed to be the part where Quentin said, <em> ‘It’s fine. I’m happy to help.’ </em> and Eliot left it at that. Where they dropped it and Eliot internalized his fragile masculinity bullshit when Quentin had to help him up from the tub later. And then if Quentin didn’t call again, well Eliot would just smoke a bunch of pot and wander around in his bathrobe until Margo threw a bucket of cold water on him.</p><p>
  <em> That wasn’t how it went. </em>
</p><p>“Okay, but that sounds like <em> bullshit.” </em> Quentin said, kind of in a huff. Clearly he was back to his old self, contrary and fascinating. A bit of a brat. Bossy. No longer pliant. Good. He was coming back down. “I said I wanted to. Not to go all ‘Per my last email’ but I said it, I said I wanted to be fucking <em> good </em> and I wanted to make you feel good and how is helping you when you need it <em> not those things </em> ? I could care <em> less </em>about your leg, Eliot. Seriously.”</p><p>There was a tightness settling in Eliot’s chest. He didn’t know what to make of it really.</p><p>Eliot shook his head. “Quentin, if you <em> knew </em> , okay? If you just <em> knew </em> what it would have been like with somebody else who didn’t need to--look, If I had it my way I would have picked you up and carried you to my bed. We’d still be there <em> right now. </em> I wouldn’t need--”</p><p><em> This. The tub. The help. All of it</em>.</p><p>Quentin tensed behind him. “Well you fucking do, <em> Eliot </em> . You need help sometimes. I need <em> fucking drugs </em> and about an army of trained professionals so that I don’t end up--whatever. Please, just don’t put on some facade for me because you think I live in some fantasy world and you think it’s what I want--because it isn’t. I don’t feel like anything was <em> anything </em> missing--I mean, I would have liked to suck your dick--but don’t spin this. That was fucking <em> perfect </em>. And I like it here, in the tub.” He picked up his hand and went to bring it down flat on the rim of the tub, but it landed awkwardly and splashed water across Eliot’s chest. Point apparently proven. He liked the tub.</p><p>But it just wasn’t possible that he didn’t want <em> the show </em> , Eliot in his perfect (yet somehow messy) control? His carefully curated persona? Wasn’t that what Eliot had been doing for <em> years </em>? Spinning a gilded little web of his own cockiness and bravado?</p><p>And Quentin wanted him like <em> this </em> Re: Needing help out of the tub and a frankly scary personal massager that wasn’t even for sexy times.</p><p>It was fucking scary and too much.</p><p>Eliot wanted to be like one way glass, seeing through to Quentin but reflecting nothing back. It was easier that way. Especially considering that this wasn’t a relationship. This was just an arrangement--a fact finding mission.</p><p>“Fine.” Eliot muttered. He hated that he’d ruined this. That Quentin was going to leave and write his little book and thank Eliot. And all the while Eliot would have a <em> memory </em> while Quentin had a <em> story</em>.</p><p>Quentin’s hands rose then from the lip of the tub and cautiously wound around Eliot’s chest, his hands linking together like a seatbelt to keep Eliot there.</p><p><em> “Shut up.” </em> Quentin told him, his strong forearms flecked with little droplets of water. The fine, dark hair there, silky with dampness, laying down like hay spread across a barn floor. “Don’t be like a dick to me.”</p><p>There he was, that boy who’d taken one look at Eliot so many times, about to do something reckless and pointed a finger at him and said, ‘<em> Don’t be a moron, Eliot. Stay in the fucking car, jesus.</em>’ </p><p>Eliot hummed, chastised but still an asshole in most ways.</p><p>“I remember you distinctly begging for something to do with my dick.” Eliot said, haughty. He squirmed back against Quentin suggestively.</p><p>Quentin shivered, Eliot felt it rattle through him like a penny through a vacuum cleaner. He was all <em> heat heat heat </em> pressed against Eliot’s back. Eliot was gonna jerk off the moment that Quentin left his sight and Old Faithful would fucking weep in its inadequacy.</p><p>“Yeah, I still want it.” Quentin said, like it was some offhand remark.</p><p><em> Quentin Coldwater was a big old slut for Eliot’s dick. </em>What a stupendous surprise.</p><p>“Peach,” Eliot said, he couldn’t resist it. He didn’t know how many more times he would get to say it. “You gotta knock it off. I know you’re gonna run to Margo and tell her all about how I went back on my word, how you got your way.<em> Seductress.</em>”</p><p>The seductress made an unflattering snorting sound, hitched Eliot closer.</p><p>Eliot wanted to pick up those feet of Quentin’s and cross them over his lap, have Quentin wrapped around him like a backpack, an infinite loop of his soft, pale skin. His own silvery scars flashing under the hazy water.</p><p>They had to get out of the tub eventually. Quentin was yawning and restless and Eliot actually <em> did </em> need his help to steady himself. That was more easily accomplished with Quentin more or less awake.</p><p>It was well past midnight as they dried themselves off with Eliot’s huge cotton towels, standing together in the bathroom. Eliot wrapped Quentin back up in his kimono, he himself had a towel around his waist. </p><p>He sent Quentin outside the door so he could use the facilities, brush his teeth, perform only the most necessary steps of his skincare routine.</p><p>When he opened the door, Quentin was waiting there but the lights were out in the living room, the windows shut and locked, the chain on the front door was bolted. Busy boy. Eliot smiled and that tightness in his chest reemerged.</p><p>They walked to the bedroom.</p><p>Quentin’s arm was firmly around Eliot’s middle, standing on his left side, steading him.</p><p>Standing there, with the tips of his hair all wet from the bathwater, Quentin looked glassy eyed once again. Tired and soft.  And Eliot <em> shouldn’t </em> but he had terrible impulse control and so he said--</p><p>“Stay the night--just, I don’t want you falling asleep on the train and ending up somewhere in Jersey.”</p><p>Which didn’t even make <em> sense </em> considering the subway lines, but Quentin looked up at him from under those eyelashes of his and nodded sheepishly.</p><p>“Yeah, okay.”</p><p>Eliot pulled on a pair of silk pajama pants for modesty’s sake alone, throwing Quentin one of his own pairs of boxer briefs and a modal cotton t-shirt (Because yes, he owned t-shirts. Eliot couldn’t exactly do PT in a suit). Neither mentioned Quentin’s own underwear was only out in the living room. But what could Eliot say, he was a total cliche?</p><p>Quentin disappeared down the hall and there were the sounds of water running, the toilet flushing, puttering around.</p><p>Eliot usually slept on the left side of the bed, next to his veritable medicine cabinet of the bedside table and the heating pad tucked away discreetly in a drawer next to the lube and condoms. Because he was <em> nothing </em> if not unpredictable. Eliot levered himself into bed and under the covers. His mattress was firm, good for his back and joints. He sighed contently.</p><p>Quentin shut the bedroom door upon his return, dressed in Eliot’s clothes. The shirt was just a little too big on him, the v-neck of the dipping to show much more of his collarbone than it did on Eliot. He had to fucking keep that shirt now.</p><p>Quentin sleepily took the other side of the bed, climbing under the covers, hair all askew on the pillow as Eliot settled in next to him, shut off the bedside lamp, casting them into darkness thanks to Eliot’s blackout curtains.</p><p>The space between them in Eliot’s large bed felt like <em> miles </em> after the hours they had spent crushed together like two halves of a nut inside its shell.</p><p><em> Fuck it </em>.</p><p>“Q--” Eliot’s voice broke the dark. Quentin startled, he felt the bed shake. “I think to get the full experience of my spectacular dominant ways, you should get over here.”</p><p>Quentin snorted sleepily, “Is that right?”</p><p>“Yes, <em> and </em> it's an order.” Eliot said, keeping his voice as nonchalant as he could. But he <em> wanted</em>.</p><p>A warm, solid body pressed up against Eliot’s as Quentin scooted over to him. Quentin laid there, all boneless as Eliot wrapped an arm around him, settled the curve of his body over Quentin’s back. His hair was <em> right there </em> and it smelled a bit like bath oil and his own drug store shampoo.</p><p>Quentin heaved one great big sigh against him, “I <em> still </em> can’t believe you didn’t at least let me blow you.”</p><p>Minx.</p><p>Eliot couldn’t resist the urge just this <em> once </em> to swat him on the ass. And so he did.</p><p>Quentin startled and made a sound like an angry cat.</p><p><em> “Be good.” </em> Eliot practically begged.</p><p>Quentin harrumphed and wiggled around, settling.</p><p>But yes, eventually sleep claimed them both.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>Quentin Coldwater was a <em> morning person.</em> It was <em> shocking.</em></p><p>And honestly, a bit disrespectful to Saturday mornings, which were for getting up around noon and no other business other than making a mimosa and rolling a joint.</p><p>Eliot learned this horrifying fact about Quentin when he blearily opened his eyes the next morning only to discover the bed empty and cold when it should have been warm and full of boy. Eliot pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, stretching until the joints in his shoulders crackled.</p><p>Annoyed.</p><p>Betrayed.</p><p>Wondering if the last night had been a figment of his imagination after years of abusing mind altering substances.</p><p>But then--coffee.</p><p>Someone had made coffee and great big wafts of coffee-smell had permeated the air of his apartment.</p><p>Eliot stood up from the bed, his hip and leg radiating stiffness. He stood there, scrunching his toes in the bedroom carpet, getting a feel for what today was going to be like.</p><p>Pain just <em> radiating. </em> His hip joint so stiff he felt gravity was pulling on him in new, terrible ways. The muscles down the sides of his legs tight with tension.</p><p>All of it just--</p><p>RICE. Fuck.</p><p>Double fuck!</p><p>Rest, ice, compression, elevation. Mother<em> fuck. </em></p><p>Co<em> ffee. </em> Coffee for sure.</p><p>And stupid fucking compression shorts that made him feel like he was supposed to be a spinning class. It was actually kind of <em> indecent </em> what his dick looked like in those shorts. It was very much reminiscent of Bowie in Labyrinth--hey <em> that </em> was a Halloween costume. They were a necessary fucking evil.</p><p>Eliot reached for the cane leaning against the wall near the bed, if he could just <em> fucking move </em> without it feeling like every muscle down the side of his leg was just going to snap. </p><p>No. That wasn’t to be.</p><p>It was a slow walk to the chest of drawers in the corner. Eventually he was able to get himself out of his pajama pants and into the dick shorts. He threw on the kimono that Quentin had left on the hook the night before, thinking about how all that lovely bare skin had touched the same silk he was wearing.</p><p>Shivering at the thought, Eliot cracked the door to the bedroom and was assaulted by sunlight pouring through his stupidly huge windows. And <em> coffee</em>.</p><p>But first, <em> bathroom. </em></p><p>Having taken care of his morning ablutions in the bathroom, Eliot cautiously shuffled into his own kitchen.</p><p>Over the years, few people had <em> stayed the night </em> . And usually if they did, their only time in the morning together had been full of maybe one last lazy fuck and then Eliot walking them to the door with a pat on the ass, wishing them well, and then he’d collapse on the couch once he was alone. Eliot had made his fair share of <em> what the hell is in the fridge </em> omelettes for a few special exceptions. Idri. Margo. <em> Yikes </em>. Mike.</p><p>Quentin had seen fit to blow all other mornings after out of the water. Because he was fucking taking notes at Eliot’s dining room table and he’d found Eliot’s keys somewhere and left to get <em> donuts </em> . He’d picked up <em> The Post. </em> A piece of true garbage apart from Page Six, which Eliot read <em> habitually </em> every week.</p><p>And he’d made coffee.</p><p>He was sitting there, zoning out on his computer (Who brought their computer on a date? Was it a date? No. An arrangement? Sure, yes.), with a pen in his mouth and two open notebooks out on the table.</p><p><em> He was still wearing Eliot’s t-shirt</em>.</p><p>And it wasn’t even a black t-shirt!</p><p>It was hunter green and Quentin’s biceps looked all nice and <em> there </em> while he sat <em> at Eliot’s dining room table </em> . Jesus, did he not know what Eliot would <em> do </em> to him bent over that table or <em> spread out </em> over it if he got the chance?</p><p>“What are you doing awake at this ungodly hour?” Eliot asked, standing at the end of the hallway.</p><p>“Shit!” Quentin bounced out of his seat in surprise and honestly it was a miracle that he didn’t choke on the pen he’d been chewing on.</p><p>Eliot leaned on his cane and was happy to observe this <em> creature </em> of a man before him. Honestly. He was fascinating.</p><p>“You scared the shit out of me!” Quentin grumbled, trying to rake his hair into some semblance of order with both his hands. Like Eliot had been sneaky during his ten minutes of prattling around his room and then the bathroom. “I didn't--It’s, Eliot it’s <em> 10:30! </em>”</p><p>Eliot waved a bored hand at him.</p><p>“I stand by my previous statement about the time.” Eliot told him, walking to the counter where there was an empty mug sitting out along with the french press. He poured himself a coffee and stiffly marched to the couch, honestly for once trying not to make a spectacle of himself. “Why are you so bright eyed and bushy tailed?” He left out the part of the question as to why Quentin wasn’t also <em> in Eliot’s bed </em> when he woke up. That would have been preferable. So Quentin and Eliot could have started the day on equal footing. Instead of, you know. One man who had gotten <em> dressed </em> and run errands. And another who could hardly make it across the room.</p><p>Quentin watched him from his chair, shoulders all curled in on themselves, one foot up on the seat so he could rest his chin over his knee. Queer people were incapable of sitting in a chair properly. It was a <em> thing </em>.</p><p>“I don’t--I don’t tend to linger in bed. It helps if I just get a move on--and then I ran into Margo in the hallway--”</p><p>It went unsaid.<em> Margo </em> had something to do with why Quentin was <em> still </em> here and why there was coffee and Page Six. Slippery little beautiful conniving <em> genius </em> of a woman.</p><p>Eliot carefully lowered himself onto the couch, stretching out with his back against the arm--basically the exact place he’d been last night only this time Quentin wasn’t stretched out beside him, rearranging every brick in every emotional wall Eliot had put up over the years. Instead, he was watching Eliot over the back of his dining room chair with his sad eyes and the donuts he’d bought.</p><p>“Well, you don’t have to stay on my account if you have more thrilling escapades to get into.” Eliot said, taking a sip of coffee. He was going for breezy nonchalance, it came out more critical.</p><p>Quentin furrowed his eyebrows at him, shoulders jumping as he turned back around and closed his laptop with a snap.</p><p>“I’m not missing out on anything <em> thrilling </em> on a Saturday morning, Eliot.” Quentin said to the kitchen, his back turned. Eliot couldn’t see, but he could bet there was a pink flush working up the back of his lovely neck.</p><p>Eliot sighed. He was doing the thing. The thing where he acted like an asshole to scare Quentin away. Because Quentin had been this good, super fucking <em> helpful </em>guy last night when he’d really only been after Eliot’s ‘expertise’ or whatever.</p><p>And now he was <em> here </em> probably out of obligation and Margo’s insistence.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Eliot said. He pulled at the hem of his robe to cover the bare expanse of his leg where it lay exposed. “I’m a real bitch before I have my caffeine fix for the day, it’s like the only stimulant I’m allowed to have anymore.”</p><p>Quentin sighed and shook his head from across the room.</p><p>“Yeah okay.” He said, voice clipped. <em> Fuck </em>.</p><p>“Just--come over here, okay? This is going to be my post for a while.” Eliot did his best not to sound too pathetic. “And bring the donuts--<em> and The Post </em>!”</p><p>Quentin shot him an annoyed little look over his shoulder, but instead of packing up his things, he carried all that Eliot had asked for over to the couch, setting them beside him like he was a bedridden royal. Which at this moment, Eliot did identify with.</p><p>“You gonna order me around now?” Quentin asked him, curled up on the end of the couch. He was making a point to <em> not </em> look at Eliot, picking at his cuticles in a way that made Eliot’s hands hurt.</p><p>Eliot was getting a headache, right between the eyes. This was--this was fucking <em> rough. </em></p><p>“No Quentin.” Eliot said. “That’s not--you’re not my sub--we haven’t even really discussed what <em> this </em>is. It’s certainly not some 24/7 arrangement where you call me every time you need to cum--”</p><p><em> “That’s a thing?!” </em> Quentin exclaimed into the thumbnail he was trying to destroy.</p><p>
  <em> Christ.  </em>
</p><p>“Yes, that’s a thing.” Eliot said, trying to keep his voice from sounding too much like he was speaking to a child. “It’s not <em> my thing </em> . Maybe, But it is a <em> thing. </em> What I mean is--sorry, okay. Fucking sorry. It should have been a question. I’m just--tired. And <em> bossy </em>.”</p><p>And in pain.</p><p>And wondering if Margo had passed out again after her walk of shame or if he could call her to do an ice run for him as soon as Quentin left.</p><p>Quentin looked at him briefly. “Apology accepted. I can be--sometimes I’m an asshole even when I have <em> no </em> reason too.”</p><p><em> “Baby--” </em> Eliot began easily, Quentin shot him a frantic look at the endearment. Like Eliot hadn’t called much more affectionate things as an acquaintance even <em> before </em> he saw that little peach-shaped ass of his. “baby, in every <em> platonic sense of the word </em>. Let me take that from the top. Platonic friend, Quentin. There, that’s it. Platonic friend, thank you for staying, the donuts, and the absolute gossip rag you brought home from your adventures.”</p><p>“You’re welcome.” Quentin said, a little haughty about it. He bristled. “I was going to stay--I went to get the donuts and Margo--she mentioned your <em> weird </em> obsession with Page Six. Which <em> really </em> just enforces our voyeuristic culture and how we vilify and still somehow worship at the altar of celebrity--”</p><p>“Quentin, spit it out.”</p><p>Quentin shook his head, shaking out his thoughts. His stupid bare feet up on the couch tucked under him, toes flexing absently.</p><p>“I was going to come back, okay?” Quentin said, “It seemed weird to leave without saying goodbye, and I <em> really </em> didn’t want to wake you up. You seemed like you needed to rest--plus, you know I didn’t want to eat your food. And so--donuts.”</p><p>Eliot nodded, a little dumbstruck.</p><p>“And so--donuts, huh?” Eliot repeated. </p><p>Quentin nodded. </p><p>Quentin set his head on his knee, and looked over at Eliot, all warm brown eyes and once again <em> shoulders </em>. “I made it weird didn’t I?”</p><p>Needy little thing. Eliot kind of loved it. He’d never met an animal with a broken wing or a thorn in its paw that he <em> hadn’t </em> picked up and put in his pocket to bring home.</p><p>He waved a hand, breezy despite the pain radiating behind his eyes. “Of course not. Never, Q.”</p><p>“I just mean--” Quentin said, deflating not unlike a balloon. “--I get it if you don’t want to <em> do this </em> again--with me. That’s okay.”</p><p>Eliot put down his coffee; measured, controlled, trying not to once again laugh in Quentin’s face <em> or cry </em> for that matter.</p><p>“Quentin, where in the everliving <em> fuck </em> did you get the idea that i’m at all through with you?” Eliot said, not unkindly. Just in a way that made it clear that was <em> not the case, your honor </em>.</p><p>Quentin opened and closed his mouth, sort of gesturing around at random.</p><p>“Um--how about the part where I was a big old fucking basketcase and cried all over you for about an hour last night? Or that I can’t--couldn’t just follow directions or answer your questions? <em> You wouldn’t even let me touch you </em>.” Quentin said, the last sentence rolling out in a rush.</p><p>Well, Eliot certainly had his work cut out for him, didn’t he.</p><p>“Come the fuck over here, please.” Eliot said, motioning for Quentin to scoot closer on the couch. “I feel like you’re a mile away down there.” Quentin shot him a look, but moved closer, perched on the edge of the couch near Eliot’s hip.</p><p>Eliot had always been touchy, tactile. It was nothing for him to reach out and stroke a calming hand down Quentin’s arm, the delicate skin of his fingertips skating across the soft hair on his arms. Quentin jolted and then settled. His hands clenched again, knuckles white.</p><p>A sore part of Eliot’s brain recalled that really the only minor disappointment from the night before (besides Eliot’s less than graceful removal from the living room) had been the fact that Quentin hadn’t <em> touched </em> him. Not really. Granted, the boy had his hands full. But even during their few kisses on the couch, Quentin had tightened up, arms up in front of his chest as though he was protecting himself from a monster in some bad horror movie.</p><p>“I’m just saying--” Quentin burst out, hands clenched in his lap. “I wouldn’t be--I wouldn’t be offended. Honestly. I mean, it would kind of be a letdown since it was <em> really nice </em> at least for me--”</p><p>Eliot, honest to god, put a hand over Quentin’s mouth to stop him. For a shocked moment, Quentin kept speaking, his breath puffing against Eliot’s palm until he broke off with a choked off sound. His eyes went all big and shocked, and then narrowed, <em> bratty. </em></p><p>“Quentin. I’ll keep telling you this as many times as you need to hear it,” Eliot said, pulling his hand away from Quentin’s mouth, settling it on one of Quentin’s sturdy shoulders. “It’s okay that you cried. Seriously. Whatever your reactions are--they’re valid. No matter what. And last night was--it was a lot for both of us. It’s completely normal for that to feel overwhelming--and honestly I thought it was stupidly hot?”</p><p>Quentin looked at him like he was nuts but didn’t comment.</p><p>“So you can fucking cry and scream or laugh or recite Babylonian poetry at me and I’ll roll with it.” Eliot said. If he could just move his thumb another inch, he’d be able to slide it under the collar of Quentin’s shirt. <em> No.  </em></p><p>Eliot continued, “As for whatever infractions you think you made or that you weren’t good--like I said, we’re just starting out. There’s a learning process, plus I think I know you well enough that your brain likes to throw you curveballs when it comes to your attention span. You gotta let me just <em> course correct </em> . Don’t beat yourself up about it--unless you like that, then sure feel all ‘ <em> Daddy’s mad at me’ </em> about it <em> --” </em> Quentin threw him a warning look, Eliot held up a placating hand, “Some people get off on that, thinking they messed up. Makes the part where they’re forgiven feel <em> more earned? </em> I mean, if I put a rule in place and you break it--I’ll probably torture you a little until you’re begging me to come, or to <em> stop </em> coming. It’s really not the end of the world.”</p><p>Quentin gulped, “I don’t typically associate a thought of failure with good time sex feelings.”</p><p>Time for the big guns then. “Quentin, did you <em> feel </em> like a failure last night? At any point?”</p><p>“Well--” Quentin began, and then stopped to blink, squirming absently against the couch. <em> Jesus. </em> “No, I guess? Just kind of overwhelmed? It was hard to focus, and I think I just really wanted to do a good job.”</p><p>Oh, boy. Oh boy. Oh man.</p><p>There was a very real chance Eliot was going to chain this man to his radiator so he could never leave.</p><p>He was just so very <em> soft </em> even with all his hard emotional edges and his self-sabotaging baggage. With his huge, sad eyes and his words, words, <em> words </em> . Not to mention his strong shoulders and how he’d been so fucking <em> helpful</em>, someone Eliot could lean on, literally, without worrying he’d fall even after Quentin had basically been rendered useless and teary from an orgasm.</p><p>“You did a great job. You were just a <em> gift. </em> It’s a big old world, chockablock full of kink, Quentin.” Eliot said, shrugging. “However you wanna do it--or not, that’s up to you and whoever you play with.”</p><p>Eliot didn’t <em> want </em> to leave that open but it was honestly true. Maybe Quentin’s worry about Eliot shutting him out was his anxiety bouncing back at him about not wanting <em> Eliot </em> in the first place <em> ? </em></p><p>Trippy.</p><p>“Oh,” Eliot said, reaching over again for his coffee. He really did need it. “and I would have let you suck my dick in a heartbeat last night if you hadn’t been so out of it. Seriously.”</p><p>Quentin’s eyes went all big and shocked. “What, really?”</p><p>Eliot nodded. “Yeah, Q. Of <em> course </em> I wanted you. Fucking <em> duh. </em> I had to do the big noble thing until you could do that minor coherence thing.”</p><p>“Oh--” Quentin said, a shockey little thing. “I mean--I would have, in a-- like a heartbeat. I, um, I wanted to.”</p><p><em> Behold world</em>, this man who’d basically tried to deepthroat Eliot’s fingers the night before, stumbling over the simple fact that he’d wanted a mutually beneficial orgasm situation.</p><p>“Be that as it may,” Eliot said, doing a bad job of not sounding imperious and like he’d made one of life’s greatest sacrifices, “we weren’t able to talk about that really before your brain turned into a puddle. So that’s why I didn’t let you. I had to know that I had your consent--that’s a big one.”</p><p>“Yeah--yeah of course. Duh. Consent.” Quentin muttered to himself. Then he took a big fucking breath and sat up to his full height, turning towards Eliot. “Can we just put a big blanket statement that I'll <em> always </em> want you to get off. Like no question?”</p><p><em> Behold world </em> , this man who was somehow <em> still </em>a constant surprise.</p><p>Eliot nearly choked on his coffee, though that wouldn’t have been elegant so he tried to pass it off as clearing his throat.</p><p>“You want to do this again.” Eliot said, it wasn’t really a question or a statement. Something in between. “You didn’t, you didn’t get enough material for your book?”</p><p>Quentin looked chagrined, patted Eliot’s knee absently. “I can’t believe you passed up the opportunity to make a joke about your dick requiring like three appointments to fully appreciate its greatness.”</p><p>There was nothing to do except to put down his coffee and then wrestle Quentin into a hug, pulling him squawking into Eliot’s chest and then just <em> holding him there</em>.</p><p>“Don’t be a brat.” Eliot mumbled, trying to sound firm.</p><p>
  <em> Again. Again. Again. </em>
</p><p>“It’s kind of my brand.” Quentin’s voice was muffled against his chest. His cheek pressed pretty firmly to the patch of bare skin revealed by the robe.</p><p>“Yeah, never change, peach.”</p><p>Quentin hitched under his hands.</p><p>“If we’re gonna keep doing this, we do <em> actually </em> need to talk about it more.” Eliot said into Quentin’s hair. The other man harrumphed, annoyed.</p><p>“Can’t I just suck your dick and then get out of your hair for the day? You have important reading to do. Page Six.”</p><p>Eliot patted his head, just fucking <em> reeling </em> at nervous little Quentin Coldwater straight up asking to blow him. Oral fixation; party of 1. It was kind of absurd.</p><p>And once again Eliot had to <em> let him down </em> when he really didn’t want to.</p><p>Headache. Pain radiating down his whole damn left leg. Compression shorts that left little to the imagination but didn’t exactly make him feel <em> all hot and bothered. </em></p><p>Eliot sighed, “For the second time in my entire life, I cannot believe I’m turning down what I’m sure is an enthusiastic and <em> creative </em> blowjob from Quentin Coldwater, but no. You can’t. Next time. I promise.”</p><p>Quentin pulled away, not looking hurt really, just a little disappointed around the edges.</p><p>“You fucking promise?” Quentin asked him seriously.</p><p>“Fucking promise, I’ll let you have it, Q.” Eliot said, couldn’t resist reaching out to thumb Quentin’s bottom lip absently.</p><p>Quentin shivered, “Shit, okay.” He drummed his hands on his knees for want of something to do to distract himself. “I guess--”</p><p>“Quentin, if you <em> do </em> actually have things to do--I get it. I’m okay.” Eliot said, letting him off the hook. “I’ll call--or text you. We’ll set something up for later this week, okay?”</p><p>Quentin nodded absently. “Alright. I was kind of in the middle of something when you--I should head home. Yeah.”</p><p>Eliot just looked upon him, not wanting him to leave but also kind of desperate to get him out of his apartment so that he could pathetically <em> languish </em> for a bit on his own. And he really needed to smoke about four cigarettes and a joint. Maybe convince Margo to rub some magic CDB cream into his leg.</p><p>Fucking foam roller.</p><p>Fucking RICE.</p><p>And there was really nothing to do about it after that. Quentin gathered up his things, and then <em> brought him a glass of water </em> and the rest of the french press, leaving both on the coffee table. His clothes were gone from the end of the couch, probably shoved into his messenger bag. Eliot didn’t make a fucking peep about Quentin leaving in his shirt (and potentially his underwear) as he sat on the end of the couch to get his feet into his shoes.</p><p>“I’ll see you--call me or whatever. Later.” Quentin said, standing there at the end of the couch.</p><p>Then he leaned down and kissed Eliot before he could lose his nerve, a quick press of his lips against Eliot’s, similar to their first kiss back in Eliot’s studio. Quentin exhaled against him and then pulled away, looking miserable. Ditto.</p><p>And then he was gone.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>“Why the fuck am I the one hauling ass over here with a bag of ice the weight and size of a small child instead of your boy, El?” Margo announced her presence loudly, practically kicking down the door around noon.</p><p>Eliot startled, trying to look guilty despite his feet propped up on about three throw pillows at the end of the couch and the open box of donuts at his elbow.</p><p>“Pardon me for trying to keep the fucking romance alive--or whatever.” Eliot said, folding his newspaper and throwing it to the coffee table. “I’m on my best behavior now. I sent him home so I could languish in peace.”</p><p>“<em>Bullshit </em> .” Margo growled, hauling the bag of ice into the kitchen so she could throw it into the freezer among his bottle of vodka and chicken stock. “Neither of you fuckers have <em> ever </em> been on your <em> best behaviors. </em> ” Still, as she ranted she was dutifully filling an ice pack and wrapping it in a towel at the kitchen counter. “You’re both <em> Emotional Hoarders. </em>”</p><p>“Okay, I get it!” Eliot exclaimed, once again pinching the bridge of his nose, caffeine and rest having done nothing about his headache. “Thank you, Margo as always for your wise observations. I’m full on <em> Grey Gardens </em>.”</p><p>Margo plopped down on the end of the couch, handing him the ice pack. Eliot pressed it to his hip, tensing up at the initial chill as he got used to it. “So how did it go last night? Coldwater looked just as tense and unblemished as ever this morning.”</p><p>“Pills, Margo. In my bedside table. <em> Please </em>. And then we can talk.” Eliot practically begged her, eyes closed.</p><p>“Ask me nicely, come on.” Margo purred, her fingernails scratching up his good leg playfully. Eliot twitched and hissed through the pain.</p><p>“Fucking fine,” Eliot growled, “<em>Please Mistress Bambi--would you please bring me my pills? </em>”</p><p>She patted him once and he heard the sound of her feet across the apartment. She returned with his big ass bottle of Advil and his CBD cream. Eliot shook out three Advil--it was <em> fine </em>--and threw them back with a sip of water. Margo eyed him over the top of a donut she pulled from the box, pretty with pink frosting.</p><p>“You shouldn’t have fucking waited for me to get up, Eliot.” Margo said, once again on the end of the couch, looking serious. Like he wasn’t an adult who could reasonably take care of himself except for once in a blue moon when his leg just gave out on him.</p><p>“Can’t I just tell you delicious things about Quentin naked to get you off my back about this. Because those are your options. Either I tell you about the birthmark or we have this conversation and you’ll never know.” Eliot said, defeated as he leaned back more firmly into the couch.</p><p>“<em>Please </em> , like at some point I’m not gonna see the boy naked if he’s hanging around you long enough.” Margo said. She put her legs up on the couch opposite him so their feet were practically in each other's laps. She wiggled her toes at him. Eliot took the hint, picking up one of her small feet and working through the tension there as penance for having to carry ice and dote on him. “Did you even <em> ask </em> him to give you a hand or anything?”</p><p>Eliot shook his head, far more fixated on Margo’s perfectly manicured, smooth foot in his hands. She sighed and melted a bit when he pressed his thumbs firmly into the arch of her foot. Predictable.</p><p>“No. I was too preoccupied with reassuring him over and over that I still wanted to fuck him.”</p><p>Margo nodded, “Yeah that sounds like Quentin. But--you know, maybe you could let him do this part too?”</p><p>Eliot scoffed at her, “And deprive you of my otherworldly foot rubs? Never. Plus I don’t feel like Quentin would feel me up quite the same way you do when I do my exercises.”</p><p>“Hell <em> no </em> he wouldn’t.” Margo agreed, “Just don’t cock this up, Eliot. The guy <em> really </em> likes you. Like a stupid amount.”</p><p>Eliot heaved a great big sigh. That was a lot.</p><p>“Margo, this is about his book or whatever.” he told her, honestly. “Or some kind of <em> doms with benefits </em> situation since he took to <em> that </em> like a fire to a Christmas tree. Oh my god--like just so much so.”</p><p>She raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m too fucking hungover to argue with you in circles about this, Eliot. So you wanna just get high and catch up on Vanderpump Rules?”</p><p>“<em>Fuck yes.” </em></p><p>Avoidance with a side of trash television. That’s exactly what Eliot wanted.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you all for your awesome feedback on the story so far! Leave me a comment and make my heart go pitter patter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Mutual Exclusivity and You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Someday I'll write a chapter where Eliot and Q don't need to talk for 15 pages before they bone. This is not that chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>About 7 years ago.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It was one of those weird, cavernous spaces where they had the release party. The kind of place that could be decorated and torn down in the space of a few hours. For Quentin, it was lit up with great big color changing splash lights against the white walls, thirty or so high top tables dotted the large space. A couple of white leather couches here and there. Other than that, pretty barren. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There was an open bar; nothing but beer and wine. Champagne passed around by three bored looking waitstaff. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was a nice party--but cheap--according to Margo. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Quentin it was in a circle of hell he’d never known existed. </em>
</p><p><em> There were pictures of his face, blown-up poster sized ones. Tastefully retouched--Margo had insisted--but there he was with that stupid short haircut he’d talked himself into, thinking it would make him look </em> together? <em> Maybe?  </em></p><p><em> Regardless, there were photos of him everywhere and huge blown-up covers of his book resting on easels by the gift bags because </em>everyone was getting a copy of the book, and candles for some reason?</p><p>
  <em> There were real life stacks of ‘The Clockwork Chronicles-Time, Consuming‘ fucking everywhere. Not galley copies. Not mockups. Actual paperbacks with his fucking smirking face on the back cover. He still somehow hated the title. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Quentin’d taken one look at the empty room before the party and bolted. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He was thrumming with hotcold dread. He’d thrown up in the alleyway behind the building as the party had started. Barely managed not to get any on his tie. Then he’d had to stand there with his head between his knees for ten minutes. </em>
</p><p><em> So he’d taken his emergency Xanax and willed himself to just be normal fucking person. It really wasn’t enough to push away the </em> existential crisis <em> at being in that room, around so many people--just having to be. </em></p><p>
  <em> Margo had the wherewithal to pass him a glass of champagne--not really the best idea, but it was a party?--when he made it back inside. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She’d taken a long look at him, brushed back his stupid short bangs--they were growing out, awkward. He had a cowlick he’d never known about--and patted him harshly on the cheek once. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Jesus, Quentin. Just mingle--I’ll introduce you to the Times guy in 15.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And Quentin had just shuddered and awkwardly went to stand as far from one of his own photos as he could. </em>
</p><p><em> He was 24--he was published-- </em> Yes mom, guys wrote romance. No, please don’t read it. <em> --he was fucking fresh out of Midtown Mental Health Clinic--he was </em>staring at some guy not 10 feet away--</p><p>
  <em> And said guy was staring right back, all million feet of him. He gave Quentin one long, uncomfortable look up and down and something in Quentin just felt trapped. The guy certainly had his hands full, one with a champagne flute--empty--and in the other, a copy of Quentin’s book, his long fingers curled across the spine, holding it out now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He looked between the photo on the back of the book and Quentin actually standing there, back at the book, and then up again. He closed one eye and did it again, “Quentin Coldwater?” he said, his tongue loosely stringing the vowels along, somehow still sounding kind of disgusted and intrigued. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah--” Quentin answered. Great. Great comeback--published author. They’d figure him out eventually--kick him out of their club. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The guy--man. They were probably around the same age. Though he looked so worldly standing there in an explosion of perfectly clashing silks and brass buttons--eyeliner and five o’clock shadow. Well, the man, sauntered forward, dumping Quentin’s book onto a passing tray of champagne flutes, picked up another full glass. </em>
</p><p><em> The man poured across the floor, and Quentin was just </em> pinned there <em> against the stupid white brick wall in this big room where people were drinking free booze and staring at about 1000 photos of his stupid face. He swallowed against the choked off feeling of his too-tight tie. Quentin knew he was going to sweat through this suit by the end of the night. </em></p><p><em> The stranger stopped about a foot away from Quentin, drawing himself up to his considerable full height, his eyes were glassy and fathomless. Familiar in that way that drunk people always were--like they didn’t need to ask to be your best friend--they just </em> were <em> by the product of being in the same place. So close. </em></p><p><em> He was too much to contend with, a jumble of features that, had genetics chosen one, would have just left him classically handsome in a pedestrian way. Instead, god or whoever saw fit to just go all in. He was just </em> striking <em> with his strong nose, dimpled chin, wickedly curved mouth, high-sharp cheekbones, deep eyes, expressive brows, and a wild mane of glossy black-brown hair falling over his brow.  </em></p><p>
  <em> He was-- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’m Eliot.” </em>
</p><p><em> He was </em>Eliot, apparently.</p><p>
  <em> Quentin gaped at him, nodding. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re late--to your own party.” Eliot said, leaning into him. A huge fucking hand pressed into the wall next to Quentin’s head and Eliot was just poised there. Leaning in, looking down. Quentin fidgeted. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Quentin’s stomach twisted up in knots. “Yeah--well it’s my fucking party--isn’t it?” Lashing out. Cool. Great. Good job. This was probably some blogger who was going to tweet about how Quentin’s book was derivative and his hair was stupid. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But then Eliot’s mouth curled into a slow smile and the heavens just opened the fuck up. </em>
</p><p><em> “Sure is--Q.” Eliot said, just loudly enough to be heard over the DJ blasting house music for reasons unknown. “You want a hit--make this party much more interesting?” He nodded towards the little breast pocket of his waistcoat where the top of a little cellophane baggie refracted the -blue-pink-purple- of the changing lights. </em>Jesus.</p><p><em> Quentin seized up. Eliot fucking leaned in and smelled him. </em>What in the everliving fuck was happening?</p><p><em>He was--he was going to be sick again.</em> <em>Pulse pounding. Vision narrowing. Get out. Go.</em></p><p>
  <em> Quentin squirmed out from under the arm beside him, made a break for the nearest set of double doors. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Julia found him near the service elevator sometime later, wrapped him up in her comforting arms. Got him some fucking water, kept a tight hold on him for the rest of the night. Smoothed over his bitching and complaining. Made a few key jokes to gloss over his self depreciation. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He talked to the Times guys.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He swallowed against bile when Margo made a toast to his success--his starred reviews already in print.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He just tried to keep it the fuck together--he shouldn’t have signed himself out so early--this wasn’t-- </em>
</p><p><em> Then--shrill laughter and the scuffle of bodies and </em> christ <em> Eliot was practically in the lap of the Times guy, grinding against him on a couch in the corner. People were muttering, blushing, pulling out their phones-- </em></p><p><em> Margo was there, with three firm words and a pointed look, they were peeling themselves apart, Eliot tugging the guy towards the exit with a dark gleam in his eyes. His fucking tie was left behind along with-- </em>was that a shoe half under the couch?</p><p>
  <em> Quentin went home that night, climbed the ladder to the top of his loft bed and fell asleep completely dressed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He didn’t leave the apartment for nine days. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>Quentin thought about it on the way home. Had an hour to kill on the train with his headphones in. Tenderhearted and always way too nostalgic for his own good he recalled meeting Eliot for the first time.</p><p>Or rather, how Eliot Waugh punched a hole right through Quentin’s life for the first time. </p><p>It got easier over the years to be around him--to take it, stand there in his presence, feel Eliot’s whisky breath on his neck while his hand was on the thigh of some other guy next to them in a booth. To help Margo get him under control or into a cab--back into his clothes that one time. Find him nearly passed out and belligerent with his head pressed against the bartop--refusing the last call, and feel a weird pang of loss because it just seemed like such a <em> waste </em> for Eliot to do this over and over again.</p><p>Eliot always <em> pushing </em> Quentin a little too far, Quentin shutting him off--getting a little too mean and bitchy, taking off to go back to his empty apartment. And it just never <em> stopped </em> . Regardless of what venom he’d spit at Margo at the end of the night--when she told him <em> no, </em> when they fought and Quentin awkwardly tapped his toes, waiting for his Uber--Eliot would come back around the next time with his grin and his devil may care attitude and Quentin would wonder what would happen when Eliot just <em> didn’t </em> show up one day--not because he’d overslept of forgotten. Because he was just gone.</p><p>Always so pleased to see Quentin. Always pressing so close. Always breezy--until he wasn’t.</p><p>So he let Eliot keep it up for as long as he wanted--confusing and probably really fucking toxic to let your best friend’s best friend paw at you--put his hand down Quentin’s own pants pocket for a lighter when Quentin <em> didn’t smoke </em> --because one day he <em> wouldn’t </em> anymore, so soak it up while you can, you know?</p><p>Eliot chased. Was pushy. And fascinating. And scary. Out of control.</p><p>Until he hadn’t been. Not anymore. Not in the same ways.</p><p>And for all those years that Eliot had been just an utter mess, Quentin had worked on his own--therapy and switching his meds again and again until he found out what worked. Until he could be in a party dedicated to his stupid accomplishments without throwing up--without drugs even if he hated it the whole time. Until he could actually get his work done without the rest of his life falling to utter hell.</p><p>Quentin was self destructive. And isolated. And pessimistic.</p><p>Until he wasn’t.</p><p>Quentin had done it. He’d gone after Eliot in his own way and sitting there on the subway, he felt some pride in that. It was coupled with the nervous energy that suffused every moment he was around Eliot, but still, he was proud of himself. For telling Eliot what he wanted. For not letting him off the hook last night when he’d been kind of a dick.</p><p>Maybe that was, you know? Enough.</p><p> </p><p>-------</p><p> </p><p>He went home. He took his pills. He ate his little packaged lunch. He fed the Catwins. He blushed all the time.</p><p>Later, he went to therapy--</p><p> </p><p>-------</p><p> </p><p>“You know, I really am capable of critical thinking on my own.” Quentin ranted, across from him Heather smiled fondly. “Like <em> really </em> . Outside of this office, I’m just <em> out there </em> in the real world, having thoughts and feelings and like huge life changing realizations--not just here on Mondays with you, I swear.”</p><p>Heather made a note, probably to call her <em> own </em> therapist to set up an appointment.</p><p>“Quentin, I’m just here as a tool for you to help you interpret your thoughts and feelings so we can figure out how they impact your life--I <em> know </em> you don’t just go home when this is all over and lay there like a lump on a log.” Heather said, making all the sense in the world.</p><p>Though, that wasn’t <em> exactly true </em> . Ever since Quentin’s world had been rocked by what had been the <em> Best Sex Ever </em> , he’d been pretty useless. Seriously, just unable to focus and losing his train of thought all the time. Julia had asked him about a dozen times if he was okay on their Sunday phone call. She probably emailed Margo to make sure he was still taking his meds. The Catwins were pissed at him (what was new?) for having to miss out on a night of their fancy food since Kady fed them generic food. <em> And it only mildly destroyed him </em>.</p><p>That wasn’t <em> normal </em> . Especially coupled with the fact that this inability to focus on <em> anything </em> wasn’t doing the couples skate with its usual partner, A Major Depressive Episode.</p><p>He sighed to himself.</p><p>“I feel really <em> good </em> for the first time in a <em> long time </em>, and honestly that’s kind of alarming.” Quentin said, leading them back to their thread of conversation from before he started practically shouting in her office about his own brain capacity. “But I also kind of feel like I’m just waiting at any moment for everything to come shattering down around me.”</p><p>He shouldn’t be talking about this like Eliot’s dick <em> (which he hadn’t even gotten to touch) </em> somehow had straightened out all of his chemical imbalances. That just wasn’t possible. This was just a strange <em> bubble </em> of time.</p><p>Quentin told her in a vague roundabout way that <em> research </em> with Eliot had really turned into <em> hands on experience </em> with Eliot, waiting for the shoe to drop--for her to tell him that probably wasn’t a great idea. You know, considering Quentin was <em> Quentin </em> and sometimes he dropped off the face of the planet. And Eliot was a guy who Quentin had kind of insisted had a drug problem last time he’d been in her office, even if that really wasn’t at all the case now that Quentin had spent time around him. Now that he knew.</p><p>Still, he expected Heather to bristle and tell him it wasn’t, you know, great for Quentin to get dicked down on the regular by someone under the pretense of <em> research </em>.</p><p>She didn’t, and just asked the most rote therapy question ever, “How does that make you feel?”</p><p>Well, Quentin felt a<em> lot </em> and it all just spilled out there on the floor of her little office in three little words.</p><p>“I’m fucking terrified.” Quentin said.</p><p>“You’re smiling.” Heather said, kind of quirking her mouth at him.</p><p>“Yeah--I kinda can’t stop doing that. I’m happy--I guess.” Quentin said, trying to flex some of the tension out of his jaw from that--from all the smiling.</p><p>“You’re happy and terrified.” Heather summed up. “Those two feelings aren’t exactly mutually exclusive.”</p><p>She was going in the <em> acknowledgements </em>.</p><p>“No? Well, I’m not used to the first and the later usually leads me to not leaving my apartment for weeks. Weird how right now I’m not actually in my pajamas,” he gestured to himself. His washed hair. His <em> stupid </em> smirking <em> everything </em>. “And, uh--smiling.”</p><p>“It’s good.” Heather said, encouraging. “It <em> is. </em> It’s been several years since your last relationship--”</p><p>“Oh, that’s for <em> sure </em> not what this is.” Quentin broke in. “No--that’s a no. It’s an <em> arrangement </em> . There are rules--” and then he <em> blanched </em> because he wasn’t supposed to be telling her about <em> the sex rules </em> he followed so Eliot would call him a <em> good boy </em> . Jesus! “What I mean is--um. It’s just a casual thing. We’re casual. It feels really stupid that I feel so <em> much </em> , like just a crazy amount because I’ve only--we’ve only, <em> once </em>. But it’s casual. I don’t even know if he wants to--um. Nevermind.”</p><p>She raised both her eyebrows at him. Nodding.</p><p>“Okay Quentin.” She said. “Casual sex, friends with benefits--whatever you want to call it--it’s fine. I just want to make sure that you’re taking care of yourself. Communication--” Heather pointed at him with her pen as he rolled his eyes, “that’s a big one for you. So if you’re going to do this--I think you need to be really open about what you <em> really </em> want from this guy.”</p><p>She probably didn’t want to know about Quentin’s dirty email or begging for Eliot to stick his fingers in Quentin’s mouth.</p><p>That was decidedly <em> not </em> within the parameters of their professional relationship.</p><p>It <em> did </em>spark something though. Thinking of Eliot and how he’d brushed off Quentin whenever he’d told him he didn’t mind lending him a hand, how he’d seemed embarrassed by it when he needed to ask for help.</p><p>“I mean--he probably doesn’t want to, what I mean is, I was kind of <em> a lot </em>, I guess? And I don’t think that guys like Eliot really want that?” All of it, one huge question.</p><p>“You were ‘a lot’, how so?”</p><p>Oh boy, did she have like the next three hours free.</p><p>“Well, I kinda--I cried, Heather. Big fat tears. I cried a bunch. It was terrible.”</p><p>He didn’t add in the part about how he’d had the best orgasm of his life <em> or </em> that he’d slept through the night like a narcoleptic puppy.</p><p>Heather nodded, absently clicking her pen. “Okay, so you cried--I’m never going to tell you <em> not </em> to do that. It’s not really my deal. But I would ask, you cried--what did this guy do? How did he respond?”</p><p>Gulp.</p><p>Cheeks flushing, remembering the turbulent waves of emotion he couldn’t really quantify and Eliot telling him he was okay, to <em> let it out. </em></p><p>“He--um, he was really nice?” Quentin said. “Took care of me. Rubbed my back.”</p><p>“So what makes you think that this <em> guy </em> who you’ve told me could have <em> anyone he wants </em> in all of New York City, doesn’t want you anymore because you cried?”</p><p>“Jesus, I don’t know. My stupid fucking brain? <em> Everything?” </em></p><p>She told him he needed to consider how depression and anxiety distorted his thoughts, each in their own special ways. Well he knew that. Still didn’t really stop them from happening.</p><p>Quentin thought about that a lot for the rest of therapy, even after they moved on to talk about how the book was going--<em> not great! </em> Quentin was kind of an expert on widow’s rights in the 1800’s now, though. So there was that.</p><p>Seriously, Margo was going to <em> kill him </em>. If only because she wouldn’t have something to masturbate to if he couldn’t send her his pages.</p><p>It hadn’t been <em> nearly </em> this hard with the Clockwork Chronicles. And how was that possible? That it was easier for him to dream up an entire <em> world </em> with a whole different set of languages but he couldn’t put pen to paper about two guys who lived in a world much like his own getting it on.</p><p>Maybe he could just go into seclusion and live off the royalties from his other books for the rest of his life?</p><p>No way. He’d go crazy within a year, penning a manifesto on the walls of his lonely cottage by the sea.</p><p>It was better to keep himself busy, even if he felt like he was constantly turning his wheels in mud, getting nowhere.</p><p>So maybe he would just have rip the bandaid off with Eliot to do the <em> discussion </em> or whatever they still somehow had to do since <em> once again </em> embarrassingly, Quentin hadn’t been really there enough to have it in the moment. Which <em> also </em> meant talking about if they wanted to continue--which Quentin <em> really fucking did </em>.</p><p>He would need to take precautions to make sure they actually had a productive conversation. Maybe he could wear one of those suits people diffused bombs in so Eliot couldn’t work his demon magic on him--or so Eliot couldn’t see him <em> lose it </em> if he told Quentin that it had been fun while it lasted, but he’d moved on to less complicated, more bendy pastures.</p><p>Maybe he could still get to suck Eliot’s dick as a goodbye gift--that would at least be something.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>The next day he had a ‘lunch meeting’ with Margo, which was really just a mutual opportunity to pump each other for information. Quentin knew he had <em> some </em> leverage here. For whatever reason Margo was eerily obsessed with his sex life and she was basically commonlaw married to Eliot and therefore the keeper of all of his secrets.</p><p>So they had lunch in Brooklyn outside a little cafe while the autumn sun beat down on them.</p><p>“Did he fuck you or what?” Margo asked before the waiter had even cleared the patio to take their order back to the kitchen.</p><p>Quentin, now having had a taste of what real <em> true </em> vulnerability was like in the bedroom, felt a ripple of that here. Horrified, kinda liking it.</p><p>“Uh--weirdly no, though not for my lack of trying?” Quentin told her. He was sort of shocked that she hadn’t just asked <em> Eliot. </em> It wasn’t like their relationship <em> lacked that </em> kind of intimacy.</p><p>“I’m putting you two dumb-dumbs on a timer, and if you don’t bone by the time the clock strikes midnight, then I’m just going to have to choreograph it. You’ll thank me later. I’m very good at composing penetration.”</p><p>“<em> Jesus Margo.” </em></p><p>She shrugged, “I’ve bided my time. I’ve sowed my oats or whatever. I’ve molded you into the success that you are, we found you that haircut that works--and Eliot was already <em> perfect </em> but now he’ll live to see 40. So just <em> fuck already!” </em></p><p>And that was the perfect time for the waiter to come back with their water and the bottle, <em> bottle </em> of white wine that Margo had ordered to go along with their lunches.</p><p>Quentin waited until they were alone because he did, in fact, have some shame left in him--barrels and barrels of it that would probably end up exploding like powder kegs.</p><p>“Look, we just <em> couldn’t </em> or he <em> wouldn’t </em> because I was really out of it, okay? So we just did--stuff we agreed to beforehand. And it was super frustrating!”</p><p>Margo smirked at him knowingly, “He actually stuck to that? Huh, he’s usually such a fucking softie. Did you like it--the other dirty parts?”</p><p>“Yes--it was great. A mind numbing level of great. And Eliot has a great deal of control where I’m concerned..” Quentin said, feeling morose. He <em> wasn’t going to complain about not getting at that dick. </em>He sipped his wine and wondered if he’d get anything else done today. He could write up some reviews and give Fen a call, she wanted to talk to him about some details of the book tour. “Margo--is it, um. Wow, how can I put this in a way that you won’t make fun of me forever--I cried, like a lot? Is that something--normal?”</p><p>“Baby,” Margo said, and Quentin<em> really </em> didn’t need more than one person calling him that in his life, especially when it called back memories of goosebumps and hands and <em> stop it. Not now. </em> “If someone isn’t crying when <em> i’m </em>done with them, I haven’t done my fucking job.”</p><p>Youch--</p><p>Quentin sat back a little.</p><p>“Yeah, but from what you’ve, um told me, you’re more of a mistress of pain type?”</p><p>She looked pleased with the description.</p><p>“You should let me show you,” Margo said casually. Quentin’s life had become one big scene leading up to a porno. “I mean--you like making things far too complicated for yourself, I think you’d like it--suffering a bit of actual pain. Begging for mercy.”</p><p>He was going to blow an artery. Or get hard at a lunch table in the middle of Brooklyn. It was so fucking hot to be around people who talked about this stuff so casually. Scary but hot.</p><p>“But I’m not gonna play with you until you learn the ropes from Eliot, Coldwater.” Margo said drolly. “I don’t have the patience to train you and I don’t think your ass could take it.”</p><p>“<em> Margo--” </em></p><p>That stupid checklist of Eliot’s (folded in half and tucked into one of his notebooks in his bag along with other ephemera he’d collected in his travels) with its checkmark next to ‘Sharing a Partner - <em> Only with Margo ;)’ </em> flashed through his brain. He’d had too much to think about that night to even really feel anything than a flash of surprising arousal because <em> bisexual disaster </em> when it came to the thought of Eliot <em> and </em> Margo doing that--dominating someone together.</p><p>What did that look like? Margo dealing out pain and harsh commands, Eliot soothing over hurts and making it better. Did they--do things to <em> each other? </em>Margo had a firm grasp on how to control Eliot, he’d seen it over the years--do they do that too?</p><p>That was just--<em> too much. </em></p><p>“He didn’t fuck you just because you cried, moron.” Margo told him, over the brim of her half-empty wine glass. Quentin needed to catch up. “If you cried, it just meant that you needed to. Totally normal.”</p><p>“That’s--okay. Thank you. I guess.”</p><p>“Talk your shit out, tell him what you want--like I said, he’s such a fucking pushover, so just consider it registering yourself for a gift--but in this case it’s Eliot’s big old cock.”</p><p><em> “ </em>I need to talk to you about that because--seriously?” Quentin exclaimed, bringing his hands down on the table.</p><p>“The only person who could win a dick measuring contest against Eliot is me--and that’s only when I can get a chiropractic adjustment the next day. That dildo is <em> unwieldy </em>.”</p><p>Which was the perfect time for the waiter to arrive with their food.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>He got to suck Eliot’s dick a few days later on another fucking Friday, finally. It was goddamn <em> transcendent </em>, kind of complicated, and he earned himself a spanking somehow in the process.</p><p>This is how it happened:</p><p>Quentin couldn’t even <em> look </em> at his empty bed without getting a semi. It was torture.</p><p>He couldn’t take it anymore.</p><p>They needed to talk--Heather had <em> said, </em>she’d said that he needed to be upfront with what he wanted. Margo had given him the go ahead--and also masturbation fodder for another lifetime.</p><p>Quentin wanted to fall face first onto Eliot’s dick. And if he had to suffer through the <em> embarrassing talking part </em>, that would be an okay price to pay.</p><p>So, Quentin called Eliot, took a page right out of his book and called him, like a psycho. He called Eliot on Wednesday night, standing around while Jane, Martin, and Rupert ate their fancy food, hating him.</p><p>And Eliot answered.</p><p>“So are we gonna do this or what? The big talk. I promise not to--zone out or whatever. But we need to talk, okay?” Quentin had said in greeting.</p><p>Eliot had laughed at him and said, “I thought you’d never ask, baby.”</p><p>So they made plans to meet again at Eliot’s place around 5 on Friday. Quentin had a talk booked with an english class at Columbia that afternoon, a favor to an old professor. He would already be in Manhattan (like he really needed the excuse). He was bringing sushi.</p><p>To have an important--meeting with Eliot’s dick--discussion about the <em> arrangement </em>. To set limits or whatever.</p><p>He was bringing sushi to talk about if Eliot wanted to keep domming him--Quentin was firmly in the affirmative camp. So much so. Even if it felt like he was never going to have another productive moment in his life again.</p><p>
  <em> He also brought his toothbrush--because it was just better to be prepared. </em>
</p><p>A little voice in Quentin’s brain reminded him that <em> once again </em>, Eliot wasn’t in the habit of leading guys on.</p><p><em> Eliot answered the door fanning himself with the six page extended kink checklist from Quentin’s BDSM book </em> . </p><p>
  <em> How? Why? How? </em>
</p><p>“You’re an <em> asshole!” </em></p><p>Eliot clutched the pages he’d —<em> printed somewhere, jesus— </em> to his chest and looked positively thrilled. “Quentin--this is it, I discovered nothing gets me harder than filling out paperwork together. Tax season--” he paused and bit his lip dramatically, groaning. “It’s going to be a veritable fuckfest.” He threw his head back against the door in mock throes of pleasure.</p><p><em> “Fuck off!” </em> Quentin told him firmly as he turned pink, shouldering his way past the other man and into the apartment.</p><p><em> Jesus, they were in the hallway </em>.</p><p>“I mean it, Q.” Eliot said, closing the door with a snap. “I wanna use your back like a desk and then file some patents.”</p><p>Quentin shivered--not exactly how he’d pictured Eliot using him, but there was a weird horniness to that. He paused in taking off his shoes to shove the bag of food into Eliot’s hands, and then pushed him towards the kitchen where plates were waiting.</p><p>“Hey watch it! You shouldn’t shove a guy with a cane.” Eliot exclaimed, though he was already setting off with the food.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Quentin said, lining up his shoes by the door. “I don’t see any cane now, though.”</p><p>Eliot looked up at him, smirking.</p><p>This. <em> This </em> felt good.</p><p>Ribbing each other, the back and forth.</p><p>Quentin threw his bag on the floor and cast a long look over at the couch, at how unremarkable it looked, when there should have been a plaque there for posterity.</p><p>He met Eliot in the kitchen where he was transferring sushi from takeout containers onto one big tray, arranging everything to his liking. Eliot was into the presentation of things, their aesthetic.</p><p>Which was kind of why it was baffling he’d show any interest in Quentin. But then Quentin remembered that Eliot had called him <em> gorgeous </em> . So maybe it was just like an art thing where Quentin saw a big old mess but to a collector, it was like a <em> special mess </em>.</p><p>Quentin carried plates over to the table along with a pair of chilled martini glasses resting on the island in a couple of trips. He made himself helpful, kinda wondered if Eliot lived in anything other than his silk kimono and his perfectly buttoned up vests. Did the man own a hoodie?</p><p>Eventually Eliot had plated and Instagramed the sushi to his liking. He carried it to the table, looking much more stable on his feet than he had the last time that Quentin had seen him.</p><p>Eliot set the platter down on the table and made a <em> voila! </em>hand motion.</p><p>Quentin cleared his throat, “Okay--so as far as I see it, if this is gonna happen--<em> the talking thing </em> -- then you can’t touch me, like at <em> all </em> ,” Eliot shot him a wry look, his mouth poised to take a bite of sushi, “or look at me <em> like that. </em>It’s not conducive to getting anything done--and I want to have this talk as efficiently as possible. Get it over with.”</p><p>“Eager?” Eliot asked with a raised eyebrow.</p><p>“‘Efficient’,” Quentin said. He took a sip of the cocktail Eliot had prepared. It was light, floral and citrusy; either so strong he couldn’t taste the alcohol or so weak there was hardly any in it. He bet it was the latter. “I don’t like doing the whole ‘communication’ thing. The way I see it, we follow those guidelines--and maybe I’ll actually be able to get through this.”</p><p>Eliot just gave him huge eyes that said it all <em> ‘If you say so’ </em> and ate another bite of his tuna sashimi.</p><p>“So from what I’ve read,” Quentin said, “you were right, we needed to set up a safeword. So I guess thanks for looking out for me.”</p><p>“Q, that’s kind of my <em> job. </em>This, you and me, doesn't work unless we put those kinds of safeguards in place, talk about our limits, and set expectations.” Eliot said.</p><p>“You want to keep doing this? Domming me or whatever?” Quentin asked.</p><p>Eliot nodded, “I’ve said it about 12 different ways. I could try for another language too, but I really only know how to swear.”</p><p>Well that was about as firm as a confirmation he was going to get--onward, ho!</p><p>“Okay, <em> so </em> I guess I’ll start then.” Quentin said, he toyed around with a piece of California roll on his plate absently with a chopstick. He looked around the apartment for some inspiration, “You know in books and stuff people always choose their safeword and it has this <em> big emotional </em> significance. I don’t know, I think I’m just going to go with ‘Giraffe’.”</p><p>Eliot’s eyebrows rose, “Great, mine is’ ‘ABBA’.”</p><p>“Um--Eliot.” Quentin began, a finger raised.</p><p>“I’m gonna stop you there, Q.” Eliot said, leaning forward so his elbows were on the table, so he could get a better look at him. “Yes, I need a safeword too. Even if I’m the one who is supposed to be in control. I have limits too--I have a safeword.”</p><p>Quentin gulped some of his drink, cheeks heating up. “Have you had to--had to use it?”</p><p>Eliot looked to the side, leaned back in his chair and picked his chopsticks back up, at ease once again. “Yes, I have. So there, now you know there’s no shame in needing a safeword or using it.”</p><p>“Okay.” Quentin said. He turned back to his meal, feeling like he’d stepped into territory that wasn’t for him.</p><p>Eliot waved a hand, nonchalant. “Water under the bridge or off a duck’s back or whatever water is falling off of.”</p><p>They ate in silence for a few minutes, Quentin dipping his sushi in copious soy sauce, Eliot looking like he was going to throw him out of his home for doing so.</p><p>“<em> Soooo </em> do I get to tell you about the silly little smile you get when I call you nice things or does that go against your code of conduct for this meeting?”</p><p>
  <em> “Oh my god!” </em>
</p><p>Quentin fully flushed and dropped his hands to the table.</p><p>Eliot didn’t even have the decency to look chastised.</p><p>He had to take another drink, hoping the cool liquid would bring down his temperature.</p><p>“I kinda can’t stop thinking about it.” Quentin said, absently. “The whole thing. Seems crazy that I didn’t know it could be like <em> that good </em> until I was 30.” Quentin stabbed a loose piece of rice with his chopstick.</p><p>“It was <em> really good,” </em> Eliot agreed with a tilt of his head and a soft smile.</p><p>“So--we’re doing this?” Quentin said, trying to keep his voice from wavering too much. Asking again, needing to hear it <em> again. </em></p><p>Eliot scoffed, “Hell <em> yes </em>. I was prepared to negotiate with you, Shark Tank style to get you out of those pants again.”</p><p>Quentin’s face split into the weirdly familiar wide grin, maybe a little bashful. “What like 30% equity in your dick with a 1% royalty in perpetuity?”</p><p>“No fucking way, peach. 20% and the royalty is only for the next 5 years, but you can reinvest at the same evaluation in the next round.” Eliot said seriously. Jesus, Quentin wanted to drop down under the table and do under the table stuff. Eliot made him feel kinda slutty, and Quentin was not in the practice of slut-shaming. <em> “What? I’m not just pretty!” </em></p><p>“You <em> can’t </em>call me that.” Quentin grumbled.</p><p>Eliot’s eyes lit up, that bright manic look in them he used to get when he’d come sweeping out of some bar bathroom wiping his nose and fixing his clothes. </p><p>And now Quentin was getting that look. He was getting the look and could <em> do </em>something about it instead of just making hasty goodbyes and heading for the subway. His dick perked up in a pretty major way.</p><p>“Oh <em> really? </em> But I call them like I see them, and I just see you sitting there and I think-- <em> peach.” </em> Eliot said, his voice lowering in register.</p><p>Trying to one-up him, Quentin made the mistake of blurting out, “Yeah well--If I called you <em> daddy </em>--that’d be pretty distracting in this very serious conversation.”</p><p>And Eliot had the fucking audacity to look surprised for about a second and then just <em> bask </em> in that word when it tumbled from Quentin’s lips. Really, he took one great big breath in and the tension just <em> fell </em>from his every muscle, and then he was just looking at Quentin with his eyes all warm and liquid.</p><p>“Go on, Quentin. Call it like you see it. But I remember there’s a rule about asking for what you want. Especially about that word--”</p><p>Quentin cleared his throat, suddenly somehow feeling very cold and hot at the same time, all squirmy on the inside, “That wasn’t--um.” Then he’s just sort of got stuck there, for once at a loss for words.</p><p>It was a <em> joke </em>. Instead Quentin felt more like he was in one of those stories in which the hero must discover the true name of a Fae creature to gain mastery over it--only he’d guessed it in the first 10 pages instead of at the climax.</p><p>“<em> Fuck </em> --I’m terrible at this.” Quentin exclaimed, reaching for his watered down drink, slamming most of it back. “Can we just pretend I <em> never </em>, um went there?”</p><p>Eliot, still all kohl rimmed eyes and long throat--fucking fairy king--tilted his head at Quentin, “Do you want to pretend it never happened? <em> Actually? </em> ” He picked up his own glass and swirled it around with purpose. “ <em> Or </em> are you scared?”</p><p>Gulp. Big Fucking Gulp.</p><p>Stomach twisting. Hot all over. Shaky.</p><p>Yeah that was fear.</p><p>But he didn’t feel like he’s going to die--or that everything is <em> ruined. </em></p><p>Happy and terrified. The two weren’t mutually exclusive.</p><p><em> “I don’t know. Really?” </em> Quentin said, quietly among his screaming nervous system.</p><p>“Well then--you’re the academic guy here--let’s use this as an example to talk about <em> limits.” </em> Eliot said, magnanimous raising his glass to Quentin.</p><p>“Can we seriously drop it? I just can’t--”</p><p>“Quentin, you chose the worst bed in town to lie in if you won’t talk about sex with me right now.” Eliot said, “The talking doesn’t go away, either. If we keep doing this and you let me into that <em> fascinating </em> brain of yours--let me do this with you, then we have to keep talking and reevaluating.”</p><p>Research. He <em> knew </em> that. But it was another thing to live in it.</p><p>“We can talk about it.” Quentin said, miserably. Heart slowing since it seemed like Eliot wasn’t going to order him to his knees at any moment--<em> where had that come from? </em> Or kick him out. <em> Okay, just stop. </em></p><p>Eliot rolled his eyes, and somehow for him that seemed like a gesture of fondness.</p><p>“The way I see it--we’re creating a space, like a house.” Eliot said, wistfully.  And man, when Eliot got going, Quentin could just listen for <em> hours. </em> “Only instead of deciding the color of the walls or if we wanted to demo the half bathroom, it’s a big empty space. And the rooms are all different outcomes--happy, blissed the fuck out, crying, sleepy, sweet, naughty or whatever. I’m taking you through this space, through the house, and my goal is to get you to a certain room. Because it’s where you need to go. I lead you there however I want, given the parameters of that sweet list of yours, and my own limits. That shit doesn’t belong in the space--we agreed to that.” Eliot looked at him pointedly, Quentin nodded, transfixed. He’d gladly watch HGTV if that’s the shit that was going on.</p><p>“My job is to navigate you through the space, give you guidelines to abide by--like a game, there are rules and defined roles--but <em> Quentin, </em> you’re the one who gets to be taken. You get to react however you want, act in ways that you wouldn’t in the normal world, because we’re in the house and you are safe, even if you feel out of control. I react to that. I get you there.”</p><p>
  <em> Quentin should have been taking notes. </em>
</p><p>Then he could have a big book of quotes to look back on and just <em> marvel </em> at how someone like Eliot could so easily articulate something that had been a great big swirling mess to Quentin for a long time. And a book like that would probably be a handy tool to jack off to.</p><p>And holy hell, Quentin wanted to see every room in that house, like <em> now. </em></p><p>“So if you trust me--” Eliot continued, “I can do that. I <em> want </em> to do that. But you need to help me by trusting your instincts--So if you call me daddy because it makes you feel all weird and confused--but you <em> like </em> it, that’s fine. You don’t need to know how or why it does. But don’t call me that because you think it’s what I want to hear. I’ll tell you what I want to hear. You’ll know.”</p><p>He looked at Quentin pointedly. He felt small and once again overwhelmed. Eliot was just so upfront about all of it. He didn’t have that squirmy little shame about sex that Quentin did.</p><p>“Yeah, okay Eliot. I can be honest.”</p><p>“I believe you.” Eliot said, and then quieter, like there was <em> anyone </em> else there besides them, “You always have a way out of things even if it seems like you’re being forced into something, because <em> hell, </em> it can be fun to feel like you have no choice in the matter, but you do. And I have no interest in anything that’s not real with you--just like you so eloquently told me the other day. So use your safeword if you need to--no harm, no foul. Same goes with stoplights.”</p><p>They were too far apart sitting at the table. It was just them and the muted sounds of cars and people outside. Quentin trying to articulate the big hot air balloon of jumbled thoughts in his brain that just boiled down to <em> happy and terrified. </em></p><p>“Here I am, rendering you speechless once again, Quentin.” Eliot said, practically patting himself on the back. “Tell me how you felt about what we did. That seems like a start.”</p><p>Quentin opened and closed his mouth.</p><p>“I’m really anxious.” He said, kind of flailing a hand about himself. “That all sounds--it sounds fucking <em> amazing </em> but i’m still--I have trouble with how, <em> look </em> we both know that Friday was--Friday was just mind-blowing and kind of frightening--or I should say, startling for a lot of reasons. I’m not fully certain I’ll <em> ever </em> fully recover full brain function.”</p><p>Eliot actually patted himself on the back. Quentin exhaled sharply through his nose. He could be just <em> such a dick. </em></p><p>“I liked being close to you, and I guess I liked you talking to me--it made it easier to <em> do that </em> .” Quentin began, awkwardly. He couldn’t even <em> say it </em> . He wrote about sex for a <em> living! </em> “And it was kind of weird and embarrassing that I was naked and you weren't--like that. But I liked it.” Eliot made a ‘Hmm’ sound and set his empty glass down on the table. Quentin wished they were closer now, hating his own rule. “It was unsettling, after the fact to realize how out of it I was--I really did feel like I was high--which is usually <em> not a good thing </em> for me, but in this case was really nice.”</p><p>“Yeah, you were <em> out </em> , Q. Really fucking fast, it was <em> incredibly hot </em> if not also a little baffling. But mostly hot.” Eliot said, a dreamy smile split across his face.</p><p>Quentin wanted to climb across the table and bite that stupid chin dimple of his. He also wanted to just lock himself in Eliot’s bathroom and never come out again.</p><p>“Sorry--that’s never happened before.” Quentin shrugged. “I don’t know if that was--um,” <em> Quote the fucking book, Coldwater. </em> “Subspace? Was that--”</p><p>“I think so--I think you could have gone deeper.” Eliot said, offhandedly. Quentin’s dick actually twitched. “You were still making full sentences at times. Well, when you weren’t blissed the fuck out and twitching for me. Really, it was a feat.”</p><p>“See <em> that.” </em>Quentin exclaimed, “That’s the part that’s the worst. I don’t know what’s gonna happen if I lose control like that. My brain’s just like a corn maze of issues and how am I supposed to--”</p><p>“<em> Jesus, Q. </em>Take a breath, okay?” Eliot said, leaning over now, putting a hand over his on the table. “I’m going to be there with you. The whole time. You can let go--it’ll be okay.”</p><p>Quentin took a breath. He even took two.</p><p>This was just <em> far more </em> that he’d been expecting. This may have actually been one of the most vulnerable conversations Quentin had ever had outside of a therapist’s office or with Julia. </p><p>What had Quentin been expecting? That Eliot might rock his world with a pair of fuzzy handcuffs then send him on his way? Kind of. He’d expected this to be <em> casual </em> . Instead they were talking about caretaking and <em> Eliot wanted to take him through his metaphorical sex house </em> and also hold him when he cried.</p><p>Well--it was just all very raw--</p><p>“It just kind of doesn’t feel great to wake up the next day and realize you’ve made a complete fool out of yourself, alright?” He said. Because it was true. He’d replayed that night over and over again on repeat for <em> days </em> and he could lose himself in it, the memory of how good it had felt. But little nagging parts of his brain poked at him over and over at how ridiculous and needy he had been. How he’d always been--wanting too much, hoping despite the fact that his brain made that a herculean effort sometimes.</p><p>And then Eliot, well Eliot actually looked <em> mad </em>. His eyes narrowed, that strong jaw of his clenched and when Quentin tried to pull his hand off the table, Eliot tightened his grip.</p><p>“Quentin--I’m not going to say this once. I’m going to keep saying it until you believe it; you are a <em> gift </em> . A great big poly-cottton-blend wrapped gift. And you gave yourself to me.” Eliot was speaking with a quiet intensity that Quentin had never heard before. Like he’d been confronted by something that was just <em> wrong </em> in every sense of the word. This directness was how people talked to him when he was--well when he was having an episode, so serious and direct. Talking sense into him. Telling the truth.</p><p>And just like <em> always </em>, Quentin just couldn’t accept it the first time around.</p><p>“Eliot, I <em> cried </em> like a big fucking baby and there was <em> nothing wrong.” </em> Quentin argued, squirming in his chair. This wasn’t like before when he started losing himself in the room, instead he was aware of <em> everything </em> around them. Every damn molecule. “That’s not normal or hot. That’s not what people want out of a--” <em> Do NOT say boyfriend. Or lover. Or partner. </em>“Out of casual sex.”</p><p>“You cried, Quentin. it was a gift.” Eliot said. “Every damn tear.”</p><p>He was going to start fucking crying again. It was <em> awful </em>.</p><p>“Can we just--can we just not?” Quentin waved his free hand, “I’d really rather not dig into whatever this is right now--just later? Okay?”</p><p>Eliot squeezed his hand. “If this is a thing for you--that you feel like you weren’t good for me the morning after, that you feel shitty, I need to know. I can--I don’t want you going around feeling that way. Because it’s not true. Not in the slightest. And it’s not good for you.”</p><p>Quentin swallowed against the tightness in his throat, pulling himself up to his full height in the seat. “Yeah--I’m not really known for my positive self image. It’s a thing.”</p><p>“Then we’re working on that.” Eliot said, his mind made up.</p><p>“Hey--no, that’s not.”</p><p>“No way, Coldwater. I’m a stubborn guy and I love a project, so consider this mine.” Eliot squeezed his hand. “You are <em> good </em>, just so fucking good. Seriously.”</p><p>Quentin cleared his throat. “Sorry?”</p><p>“Oh, you’re gonna be sorry. So sorry you ever questioned whether or not I thought it wasn’t so fucking sexy when you begged to get your mouth on me.” Eliot said, in <em> that tone </em> the one Quentin had said wasn’t allowed for this very reason. Because the tone of Eliot’s voice made him want to vibrate out of his skin. “How you were so sweet for me sitting there on the couch falling all over me, letting me hold you. Just <em> gone </em> . Those pretty eyes of yours Q, pupil’s just <em> blown out </em> from nothing but me telling you what you were going to do.”</p><p>“<em> El. </em> Don’t.” Quentin said, pleading really. That Eliot would let him off the hook. That Eliot <em> wouldn’t </em>.</p><p>Eliot raised an eyebrow at him. “Give me a color, peach.”</p><p>Quentin shook his head, “<em> Eliot. </em> Wait. Just a goddamn second--I can’t <em> think </em>, okay?”</p><p>Eliot took a deep breath, Quentin found himself matching it.</p><p>“Quentin, you don’t need to do <em> anything right now </em> except give me your answer. Do you trust me?”</p><p>Quentin was pinned to the spot seemingly by only Eliot’s hand over his own, by his eyes and how they were just so intense and dark, finally by Eliot’s words.</p><p>So Quentin was honest. And terrified and happy.</p><p>“Green. Yes.”</p><p>Eliot nodded once. “You wanted to show me how good you could be for me. What did you want to do Quentin?”</p><p>And now he had to just <em> say it </em> again? At the dining room table?</p><p>“You know, El. Come on.” Quentin said, verbally dragging his feet.</p><p>“Tell me what the rules are, Q.” Eliot said. His hand grasped Quentin's and turned it over, pressing it down so that the back of it was against the table. Weirdly, it was the sight of his own wrist peeking out from under the edge of his sweater, turned out to the room that made his breath hitch.</p><p>“I, um--I answer your questions. Verbally.” he said, his knee jumping up and down of its own accord under the table. “I have to ask for what I want. And the last one was that I have to use my safe word or a color if I'm not--not comfortable or if I want to stop. Plus, um, you want me to be honest with you--though I feel like that wasn’t a rule in and of itself--”</p><p>“So then if you know your rules, follow them. And if you can’t follow them, there’s gonna be repercussions, smarty pants. Tell me what you wanted to do for me.”</p><p>Quentin wanted to stamp his foot. He’d been so cavalier about this over and over again in his head and <em> to Eliot </em> but now it felt different to have to say it because Eliot wanted to hear him.</p><p>“I wanted to suck your dick.” Quentin said, a weird hook of nerves tugging at his stomach. “But you wouldn’t let me.”</p><p>Eliot sighed, brushed his thumb along the exposed skin of his wrist and Quentin keened.</p><p>“You didn’t just <em> want to </em>.” Eliot said, conversationally. “You begged me for it. You got all pouty about it when I wouldn’t let you have it. Over and over again.”</p><p>He was actually going to combust into flames. Embarrassed and needy. So fucking warm in all of his clothes all of a sudden.</p><p>“I wanted to be good for you,” Quentin said, the words just tumbling out of him. “El--you wouldn’t let me. And um--just, before I’m just useless because--it’s gonna happen here quick--I need to tell you, I have to--”</p><p>The sound of Eliot’s chair scraping against the floor startles him, and then Eliot’s hand was gentling through his hair again and it felt just so <em> sweet </em>.</p><p>“You’re okay. It’s okay. Whatever it is, tell me.” Eliot said.</p><p>“Let me just--let me <em> help you, okay </em> ?” Quentin said frantically. “I don’t just mean that I want blow you all the time, I <em> want </em> that too, but what I mean is--I’m fucking <em> here </em> with you, because I want to be and because weirdly you want me here too. So just--don’t treat this like you’re some consolation prize for me all the time.” He felt it leaving him, all the rushing thoughts he’d had in therapy, laying alone in his bed. Thinking about Eliot’s closed off, disappointment with himself and how that had made him feel like he wasn’t <em> enough </em> . Staring at the couch in the aftermath, thinking ‘ <em> if i’d been better, maybe...’ </em> It just had to get out of him. “If I have to live with you telling me that I’m not pathetic, then you have to believe it when I tell you that you were <em> perfect. </em> Both ways, motherfucker!”</p><p>He poked Eliot in the chest to make his point.</p><p>Eliot blinked at him in shock. Quentin blinked back despite the erection coming to life in his pants at what had transpired in the last few minutes. The other man bit his lip and looked just kind of <em> anguished </em> there next to Quentin.</p><p>
  <em> Take it back. It’s fine. </em>
</p><p>“<em> Eliot--” </em></p><p>But then Eliot’s mouth was on his and there was nothing to be said because it was just lips and teeth and Eliot’s hand on the back of his neck, holding him close.</p><p>“I’m an asshole.” Eliot said, pretty much against Quentin’s mouth. He felt the vibration of it through his lips. “Of <em> course </em>, yes. You are good, and thoughtful and caring. I’m just--not used to needing that. I should be, but it’s--”</p><p>“It’s hard to ask for help.” Quentin answered. “For the things you want.”</p><p>Because it was true.</p><p>And he was being honest.</p><p>Eliot closed his eyes and opened them after a long moment. Quentin studied the contours of his face from close up, this time finally able to take it in without being out of his mind with the need to come. Eliot had just stupidly long eyelashes. His cheeks were more rounded now that they were older. He was going to have nice, deep smile lines with age.</p><p>He was just so <em> handsome </em> and there.</p><p>Eliot pressed his forehead to Quentin’s, huffing out a sigh. “Okay, there’s two rules for me too now. <em> But don’t get cocky about it. </em>Rule #1: I ask for help when I need it. Rule #2: I will be the best dom I can be for you, in whatever circumstances, and I won’t apologize about it when things don’t pan out the way I want them to because of my leg. I’ll work on accepting that. Ugh.”</p><p>A broad, dimpled smile spread on Quentin’s face, pulling those muscles that felt like they were getting a real workout lately. “Do I get to spank you if you break one of them? You know--repercussions?” he asked. <em> That. </em>That seemed like a real sight, and somehow made him have to clench his thighs together at the role reversal.</p><p>“Only if the opposite is true for you, Little Q.”</p><p>
  <em> Whomp there it is. </em>
</p><p>“<em> Hey now!” </em>Quentin backpedaled, “That wasn’t--”</p><p>Eliot shook his head at Quentin, “You wanna be a good boy for me, peach?” Quentin nodded fucking frantically, muscles in his arm tensing where it was still pinned to the table. “Then you’ll take a punishment from me like a good boy, too. Do you remember what I told you about how I punish boys?” Quentin nodded again. Like he’d ever be able to scrub Eliot telling him it would never be just pain out of his mind. That he’d be taken care of. “Yeah--you do. It doesn’t mean you’re <em> bad, </em> earning one--per se. It just means, we’re gonna work together to make you <em> better </em>. Do you want that, Quentin?”</p><p>There were just no words, nothing in his head.</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>“Baby, that was three questions--and<em> not a peep </em> out of you.”</p><p>Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fucking <em> rules </em>.</p><p>Quentin opened his mouth to apologize or make some probably pathetic sound but nothing came out. Eliot just tilted his head and said something devastating, “Do you need a reminder to be good for me?”</p><p>“Yeah? I guess--it’s not gonna be--”</p><p>He didn’t know what, honestly.</p><p>“Nothing that earth shatteringly kinky, I think I’ll just put you over my knee and finally get my hands on you, Peach. Get you all rosy and pink for me. Spank you, see if you’re a crier or the quiet type.”</p><p>Ah right. Just that.</p><p>Quentin had to put his head down on the fucking table, let his cheek rest there against the cool wooden surface. Never let it be said that his reactions were anything too over the top. It was <em> awful </em> and <em> wonderful </em> just the thought of it--the anticipation that they were going to do that. He had rules and consequences. And he <em> knew </em> what was going to happen. It was a real fucking trip.</p><p>Eliot seemed content to play with Quentin’s hair while he needed a moment.</p><p>“Should I tell you what we’re going to do now?” Eliot asked, his hand wrapped around Quentin’s wrist on the table. It was just so fucking easy for him, to capture Quentin in those strong hands of his. Quentin was just going to keep his head down here forever.</p><p>Quentin nodded against the table, his stomach clenching. Then, <em> the rule! </em></p><p><em> “ </em>Yes, tell me. Please.”</p><p>And then his phone went ballistic in his bag.</p><p>Typically, it lived on vibrate, except for one specific alarm. 6:30 on the dot. Every night.</p><p>Quentin jolted. He sprang up in his chair, muscles snapping back into working order.</p><p>“Ignore that--” Eliot said, his eyes didn’t even leave Quentin for a heartbeat.</p><p>Like push-starting a car on a hill, Quentin’s brain did the heavy lifting of thought, spurred on by the sound of his phone. The thought gained momentum until it was careening down the hill, taking off under its own power.</p><p>“That’s not--” Quentin said, voice cracking. Tension radiated between his shoulder blades. Make your mouth move, Quentin. Say the words. “That’s an alarm--” Eliot furrowed his eyebrows at Quentin. “El, I have to take my pill. It’s time.”</p><p>The sound of Eliot’s chair scraping on the floor sounded. Quentin found that he really couldn’t move, but he felt himself going cold watching Eliot cross the room, stooping to scoop up his bag from the ground, to bring it to the table. Eliot found his phone easily enough, it was still screaming at them.</p><p>“Here you go,” he said, handing it over so Quentin could thumb the passcode and punch the notification from his reminder app. “Do you have them here?” Quentin nodded, “Get your pills, okay? I’ll go get you some water.”</p><p>Eliot pressed a hand to Quentin’s head as he stood up again and made his way into the kitchen. Quentin fumbled in his bag, among the pens and papers and books there was a little pouch with a zipper. Julia had gotten it on Etsy for him, it literally said ‘My Bag of Drugs’ on it. It was easy enough to spot at the bottom of the bag.</p><p>He went through the ritual of opening the bag, tapping out his Abilify, staring at it in the palm of his hand for several long seconds after Eliot presses a cool glass of water into his other hand with a quiet, “Go on, Quentin.”</p><p>So he took the pill and drank the entire glass of water, because <em> holy shit </em> was he thirsty without realizing it.</p><p>It was a tender itch in his brain, Eliot watching him do this--bringing him water, taking the glass and asking him if he wanted another. Quentin shook his head no, thought better of it and said the word, “No.”</p><p>Eliot petted his shoulders and sat down in the chair again. “Quentin, you gotta come back, just for a bit, okay? Can you focus on me?”</p><p>Focus. Focus. Yes. Despite the buzzing feeling in his brain, he knew this was something important, something he needed to do. He shook his head, the action putting him back a little into his own body. “Yes, I’m here. As much as--I really ever am.”</p><p>Eliot nodded just once, maybe to himself. “6:30? That’s when you take your pill. At 6:30?”</p><p>“Yeah-- and Adderall in the mornings. When I get up--around 7.” Quentin said. Facts. He could do facts, especially about ones he pretty much adhered to like a north star.</p><p>“We won’t--I’ll make sure you take it, okay? No matter what. So just don’t worry,” Eliot said and then shook his head, annoyed. “I can’t tell you not to worry about that. But I’ll look out for you if we’re in a scene and you’re out of it. Is that alright?”</p><p>The big happy soap bubbles were back, filling him up from the inside.</p><p>Julia called sometimes. Of course she called. Or she texted. She made sure that he was taking his meds--but no one had <em> ever </em> --just <em> fuck. </em></p><p>“Thank you.” Quentin said, “That means a lot, I’d like that. If you could make sure I take them if I'm not--<em> here </em>.”</p><p>If he was under. If he was too blissed out. Or crying. Or at Eliot’s mercy.</p><p>Eliot would make sure he was okay, even in this.</p><p>
  <em> Holy shit. </em>
</p><p>“This is complicated.” Quentin said, feeling kind of pathetic sitting there. His body felt like it was losing steam, his erection flagging softly against his thigh. “I can be complicated. I’m sorry--I didn’t mean to.”</p><p>“You <em> are </em> complicated.” Eliot said, “You’re allowed to be complicated. You can be complicated and <em> good </em>for me, can’t you?”</p><p>“I want to be.” Quentin replied, not knowing if it was a definite answer.</p><p>“You <em> are.” </em> Eliot said, looking at him tenderly and kind of sad. He leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, right between the eyebrows. “Come on--leave the dishes for later, I’ll show you how good you are for me.”</p><p>Quentin nodded eagerly. He wanted to go back to that place, chaotic and <em> weirdly soothing </em> though it was. He wanted Eliot to take him there.</p><p>So he took Eliot’s hand and followed him through the apartment, into the bedroom and stood there on the soft carpet while Eliot closed the bedroom door.</p><p>And it was with agonizing anticipation that Quentin waited for Eliot to turn around, stride toward him and give Quentin his undivided attention. Like the first time. Like every time. Hopefully for a long time.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! </p><p>Don't worry Quentin gets what he wants in the next chapter, this was just getting super fucking long! I feel like this chapter has made it pretty clear that I have no intention writing anything less than these two just super in love with eachother from JUMP.</p><p>Also maybe a scene with Margo at some point? I kinda here for it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Mine, Conditionally</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Wow okay here's 10K of porn.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Quentin-Mother-Fucking-Coldwater </em> was a <em> trip. </em></p><p>Doing anything--<em> everything. </em></p><p>Tucking his hair behind his ears nervously at a book release party.</p><p>Snorting when he laughed into Margo’s shoulder at some nerdy joke.</p><p>In the throes of passion next to Eliot’s body on the couch.</p><p>Now, standing in Eliot’s bedroom freshly medicated and looking <em> forlorn </em> with his huge brown eyes and slumped shoulders.</p><p>Did he even know what it was like for Eliot, running mental circles around him at breakneck speed giving, giving, giving while Quentin just <em> took? </em> In the <em> best way possible. </em></p><p>No, he couldn't have known.</p><p>Especially when Eliot considered the fact that the boy before him had thought he was anything other than just <em> perfect </em> all the damn time. Once again. In all the ways. Tucking his hair. Laughing. Coming. Now, waiting.</p><p>And he trusted Eliot?</p><p>Well, that was about the most outrageous thing to ever happen in the history of his already outrageous existence.</p><p>It meant he had to be careful, <em> so fucking careful </em> . Because if he insisted that Quentin was a <em> gift </em> that meant Eliot had to be the one who didn’t fucking drop him on the ground come Christmas morning.</p><p>He took Quentin by the hand, so willing to be led, and pulled him over to the bed to sit up on it. Eliot stood between his spread legs. Even with the boost of being off the ground, Eliot had a good inch on Quentin, but neither had to stretch or stoop when Eliot kissed him, slow and soft. Quentin made the loveliest little sounds into his mouth as Eliot took him and held him with a firm hand around the back of his neck. He liked to be moved, held. That was good, Eliot was a bit of a clinger.</p><p>Regretfully, Eliot had to pull back so they could both breathe. Quentin face-planted into his shoulder rather gracelessly. Eliot took to rubbing up and down the strong planes of his back, his hand passing over the tense muscles there. He and Quentin were both strong candidates for intense massage therapy. </p><p>One day Eliot would have to get him totally lax and loose under his own hands, spread out on the bed, all of those firm little muscle groupings of his glistening with massage oil. Flip him over and then work him over and over with his hand until he was <em> begging </em> for Eliot to let him come. Oh and then once he did, Eliot would fuck him while he was all loose and bleary.</p><p>He really needed to start taking notes on everything he wanted to do to Quentin.</p><p>Eliot leaned his head against Quentin’s, doing a little rocking side to side, trying to bring them both back down to a more relaxed state. Quentin huffed out a breath, the rush of air tickling Eliot’s neck. He shivered.</p><p>But then there was the matter of Quentin’s hands. Those lovely hands made for all manner of delicious things. They were clenched tightly into the side of Eliot’s mattress, white knuckles and everything.</p><p>“Peach, touch me--” Eliot said into Quentin’s hair, softly. Just for them. He’d hardly gotten the words out when Quentin’s arms were tightly wrapping around Eliot’s holding onto his waist tightly. “Oh wow, okay.” Eliot wheezed a bit at the pressure. Quentin let up a smidge but seemed content to just try to hold him there, wrap his arms and legs around Eliot and just cling.</p><p>“I think you deserve a reward--for being really honest with me so far. For all the talking earlier. But the rules still apply, you’re gonna get a little punishment afterwards, okay?” Eliot said. Quentin perked up in his arms, pulling away to look up at him, inquisitively.</p><p>He was fucking <em>gone. </em>All glassy eyes and a kind of slack jawed, awed look on his face. Hair falling into his eyes. Just like that. He got all soft and sweet with the least amount of effort, just some nice words and a few kisses.</p><p>“Would you like that?” Eliot asked, testing.</p><p>And it was about a whole ten seconds before Quentin’s brain kicked in and he answered, “Ye-yeah.” before burrowing back into Eliot’s shoulder. Seriously. If he would fit into Eliot’s pocket, he would have stuck them there.</p><p>“Okay, then it’s your choice--whatever you want to do.” Eliot said, feeling Quentin’s hands flex a bit on his ribs.</p><p>The other man made kind of a strangled sound into Eliot’s shirt and it took him a minute but eventually he pulled away again, bashful and red. Lovely.</p><p>“You said--that I could um,” Quentin said. Eliot was going to bite that bottom lip the <em> moment </em> it was unoccupied. “Last time before I left, you said I’d get to blow you. I want that. To do that.”</p><p>Eliot swooped in, hands cupping Quentin’s face firmly toward him. “Anything you want and you just want to make me feel good?” He wasn’t even disappointed that Quentin didn’t outright want Eliot to fuck him. No. He wanted to give just Eliot pleasure.</p><p>He couldn’t really nod all that well, what with his face held there between Eliot’s palms. “Yeah, of course.” and then Quentin shrugged.</p><p>The other man startled when Eliot leaned down again and kissed him once more, hands pulling at the hem of Quentin’s sweater, sinking beneath to explore his warm skin, the soft hair of his chest. Quentin keened against him, bowing into Eliot when he ran his fingers across his nipples, down over his sides.</p><p>Eliot started to undress him then, pulling at the hem of his sweater until Quentin dutifully raised his arms, then swooping in to kiss him again when he emerged from his own clothing, hair kind of all over the place with a bit of static. Quentin’s hands moved to Eliot’s shirt and then stilled. </p><p>They broke apart and he asked, “Can I not be the only naked one this time?”</p><p>
  <em> Guh. </em>
</p><p>As thought it was a real struggle for Eliot to give him that.</p><p>“Of course, sweet boy.” Eliot said, pushing Quentin’s fumbling hands away so all he could do was <em> watch. </em></p><p>And so Eliot took his sweet time undressing the both of them, unbuttoning his own vest and shirt, throwing them off to the floor. Quentin raised an eyebrow at him, The Folding Police. Didn’t he realize there were different rules for daddy?  Eliot ignored him mostly, more focused on sucking a sweet mark over Quentin’s collarbone as he worked on the button and zipper of Quentin’s jeans. </p><p>He could be firm and demand that Quentin’s clothes were folded, later. This was different.</p><p>Quentin was mostly <em> useless, </em> honestly. Trying to help but really just pawing at Eliot, he did manage to scooch his pants down and then kick them off the bed, giving Eliot a haughty look.</p><p>Before long they were both bared completely to each other. Eliot couldn’t help himself, bringing his hand down to stroke Quentin’s cock leisurely up and down where he was hard and aching, cup his balls to get familiar. Wanting to press back behind against that space, that secret stretch of skin. No fucking self control, he did. Quentin whined and held Eliot to him, mouthing at Eliot’s neck and collarbones, hands palming his ass to bring their bodies together. See, he had just such lovely, useful hands!</p><p>Pressed this close together, Eliot wrapped up in the crushing pleasure of his cock rutting against Quentin’s, he felt himself growing desperate, losing that edge of control he had to keep where they were concerned. This was blissfully different from the discomfort he’d felt that first time, like every move he made was liable to send a jolt of pain radiating through him. He felt good, there was a dull ache in his joints, nothing he couldn’t handle or ignore and Quentin pressed against him was the best balm for any discomfort.</p><p>Eliot held him there, his free hand curled in Quentin’s hair, guiding him here and there across his own neck and chest, dragging his mouth where he wanted it. A hot, delicious flash of pain went through him as Quentin bit down on the tendon where neck met shoulder, laving away the pain with a long sweep of his tongue. Eliot growled against him, pulling him away firmly by the grip he had on his hair.</p><p>“Do you want me to be a little rough with you this time, hungry boy? Is that it?” Eliot asked.</p><p>Quentin’s eyes lit up and he pulled against Eliot’s hold, “I want what you want, El. <em> Please.” </em></p><p>Angels wept.</p><p>Everyone who had ever told him all his hedonism would land him in hell had <em> clearly </em> been proven wrong by Quentin Coldwater.</p><p>“Are you sure about that? I want a lot of things--you’ve seen the list.” Eliot teased him, wrapped a hand around both of them where they were pressed together and rocked his fist up and down. Sweet lord, Quentin was already so flushed and leaking all over them.</p><p>Quentin took a big, shaking breath. “I trust you, Eliot. Show me the house or whatever--take me.” Cheeks all pink, eyes half closed, Quentin leaned up and pressed a kiss to Eliot’s lips. Closed-mouthed and sweet. He pulled away and pressed another to the red, pulsing mark he’d left on Eliot’s neck. That one far less chaste. Open mouthed and hungry. Scrappy little biter.</p><p>Eliot was going to have to up his cravat game in the coming week. Well worth it.</p><p>He kept on stroking them, looking down to see how their bodies were pressed together, and--with a truly incendiary amount of arousal--he took in how much smaller Quentin was than Eliot, in so many ways. He dick was average in size. So sweet and perfect. But <em> anyone </em> average in size looked small in comparison to Eliot’s length and girth.</p><p>Even Eliot wasn’t immune to that lizard brain part of him that <em> loved </em>that, seeing how much larger he was than Quentin. He was only fucking human.</p><p>“Look at us, Q.” Eliot said, throwing a bit of command in his voice. And Quentin whimpered miserably but he did, resting his forehead on Eliot’s shoulder (which seemed to be his favorite place to hide) and looking down. “You want to get your mouth on me, finally? Do you think you can take it? How much have you thought about it since Friday? Since you begged me to let you have it.</p><p>Quentin made a punched-out groan, shaking his head against Eliot. He shuddered against him as Eliot kept up the slow pace of his hand, not even getting up to the tip of his own dick, making sure he gave Quentin nice full passes. His palm was searing with the heat of them.</p><p>“I wanted it--so badly.” Quentin said in a rush, the sound somewhat muffled between their bodies.</p><p>“Did you jerk off again?”</p><p>“<em> Yes.” </em>It was more of a pained whimper than anything.</p><p>“Did you suck on your fingers, trying to keep all those sweet noises inside?” Eliot growled, squeezing them both. Quentin twitched against him, a full bodied loss of control, moaning, nodding his head quietly against Eliot’s shoulder. <em> Another unanswered question.  </em></p><p>Eliot pressed on. More was more.</p><p>“Did you want me there, watching you, telling you how pretty you are while you fucked your hand?”</p><p>“Oh my god.” Quentin threw his head back as Eliot punctuated his question by thumbing him right under the head and then a dirty twist of his hand. “You’re so stupid big. Please just let me--El. <em> God. </em>”</p><p>
  <em> And another.  </em>
</p><p>Eliot could have stood there playing 20 questions with him all night, just to experience those nonsensical answers.</p><p>But Quentin was getting his treat, so that’s where this had to go.</p><p>He needed to move this along before he lost himself in the rhythm of his own hand and Quentin’s thighs pressing into his own as he sat on the edge of the bed. It was just so tempting to get them both off quick and dirty, making a big mess between them. Maybe make Quentin lick him clean, though that didn’t seem like something he wouldn’t just beg to do in the first place with those giant woodland eyes of his, there’d be more of those tears if he didn’t get it. <em> Fuck. </em></p><p>Quentin made a rough, surprised sound as Eliot took his hand away from their dicks and grasped him firmly around the hips with both hands, heaving him back onto the bed with a show of strength. Lizard Brain. Quentin’s back hit the bed and he rose up on his elbows, a shocked look on his face. His dick jerked against his belly on its own--<em> sweet christ.  </em></p><p>From there, it was a matter of Eliot getting up onto the bed itself, propped up against the headboard, staring down at Quentin’s reeling body still sprawled across the duvet where he’d left him.</p><p>“Come here, peach. Now you can show me how sweet that mouth is, maybe then you’ll be satisfied.” Eliot said, watching as Quentin shakily brought himself up onto all fours, crawling over.</p><p>Quentin made a sad sound of worry, staring down Eliot’s dick.</p><p>“No--” Eliot teased him, relishing in the way that Quentin bit his lip at the word, “I don’t think you could <em> ever </em> get enough, could you?” Quentin was there now, so close, supported by those strong forearms of his, looking down at Eliot’s cock like he was going to just faceplant in it and never leave. Eliot took his chin in his hand gently, guiding him to meet Eliot’s eyes. “Go on then, show me how much you love it. Show me what you like to do.”</p><p>Quentin cleared his throat, but no words came. His eyebrows pulled together in worry, searching Eliot’s face for something.</p><p>Eliot stroked his cheek and leaned down then to kiss him there as well. Because he was just so tender really. “You want a bit of water?” Eliot asked him, not even waiting for a response as he reached out for one of the bottles he’d stashed on the nightstand, cracking it open. There were aftercare supplies stashed everywhere within reach--he’d prepared this time! Eliot held the bottle to Quentin’s lips when he made literally no effort to take it himself and gave the other man a few sips. “Give me a color, Q. Everything okay?”</p><p>“Green.” Quentin said, the word came out slowly. “I want--El, tell me what to do. Please?”</p><p>Now it was Eliot’s turn to make a punched-out sound. Yes. Yes forever. He could do that.</p><p>And Quentin, <em> well </em> Quentin took direction <em> beautifully </em> and with gusto.</p><p>He listened quietly as Eliot told him where to place himself, that it was fine if he wanted to put weight on Eliot’s right leg but not his left, how he should avoid grabbing his left hip as well, but the right one was up for any clutching that Quentin wanted to do.</p><p>“You can use your hands for now--” Eliot said leisurely, thumbing Quentin’s mouth open. He was just so <em> easy </em> for it. Said hands clutched at his good hip and the bedspread. “I think you’d look so sweet and desperate struggling to take it with your hands tied behind your back for me. You want that some other time?”</p><p>Quentin made a desperate sound around his thumb, sucking and working his tongue on Eliot, showing how good he was going to be. He spread himself out on his belly, half of his chest resting across Eliot’s thigh, pinning him down to the mattress. That sweet peachy ass just out and about, above his nice, solid legs. Very soon Eliot was going to paint that ass rosy pink and red, get a good look at his hole--<em> Quentin would probably be mortified. </em></p><p>It was an out of body experience to sit there and watch Quentin’s approach, how he waited (pretty damn impatiently) for Eliot to give him the okay. Eliot’s dick laying there heavy across his hip, leaving a little kiss of pearlescent fluid across his skin. Then there was the gorgeous ripple that went through Quentin’s entire body, all stretched on the bed when Eliot took himself in hand and rubbed the head across the near constant pout of Quentin’s lips. He made a hungry, whiny sound despite the fact that <em> he’d asked for this. </em></p><p>Eliot liked his blowjobs eager and messy. Quentin was the epitome of both.</p><p>When Eliot finally told him to take it into his mouth, Quentin practically sobbed and opened wide, trying to take as much as he could at once, breaking back with a harsh gag immediately. Eliot guided him, a hand on that gorgeous head of his, told him to hold the base of his dick in his hand and stroke what he couldn’t fit in his mouth. Quentin pouted up at him, somehow annoyed at the implication he couldn’t magically deepthroat all of Eliot’s considerable dick just based on charm.</p><p>And he was <em> charming </em> but taking on Eliot required practice. Eliot was willing to make himself available to all the tutoring sessions he could.</p><p>And Eliot, well Eliot was in <em> heaven, </em>wracked by long, needy waves of pleasure, staring down at Quentin in his lap, bobbing up and down over and over again. Everything was just wet and warm. He couldn’t stop himself from tilting that face to the side to get a look at him properly, thumbing Quentin’s hollow cheek, pressing to feel himself through flesh, stretching. It was a lot to contend with, Quentin’s thumb barely met the rest of his fingers from the girth of it. Quentin groaned around him, sending vibrations straight through Eliot that made his balls just absolutely tingle.</p><p>Eliot showed him how he liked it when Quentin pulled back and laved the head with his tongue, working down to his frenulum. All the while though the heat spreading, his orgasm building, Eliot just couldn’t stop fixating on how Quentin’s mouth stretched around him, how his lips were kiss-bitten red and sore looking. Spit glistened where it had dribbled from his lips and down his chin, most of it making its way onto Eliot’s dick, slicking the way. It was a fucking thing of beauty.</p><p>There were dirty fucking sweet sounds near constantly. His own labored breathing. The wet gag and choked off groan of Quentin pushing himself just a bit too. The slick sounds of Quentin’s hand making up for what he couldn’t reach--not for lack of trying.</p><p>Eliot added to that filthy symphony.</p><p>All the while he showered Quentin in praise. Told him what a good boy he was. How proud Eliot was that he was taking his big dick so good. Called him a messy boy because he knew Quentin loved it. Confirmation came in the form of Quentin’s hips pressing into the bedspread absently in stuttered little movements, trying to find his own pleasure. Whining onto Eliot’s dick.</p><p>“Baby, be careful, don’t want you coming until I can get my hands on you.”</p><p>Quentin pulled off, moaning, curling his body up so his hips weren’t getting friction, knees and bony ankles curled under his upper body. Just so <em> sweet and good </em> . “ <em> El--” </em> Quentin said, panting there against the head of his dick like <em> he </em> was the one who was getting spectacularly blown, “ <em> Please. </em>Talk to me--Tell me. Is it good?”</p><p>Quentin’s eyes were closed, his brows pulled together in that little furrow of concentration, Eliot smoothed it out with his thumb. Those long eyelashes of his shuddered where they were pressed to the tops of his cheekbones. He surprised Eliot then, blinking bleary eyes open to look up at him, the near purple head of Eliot’s dick a hair's breadth from his lips. His pupils were just absolutely <em> shot </em>, nearly all black, watery from his efforts. </p><p>Eliot had never seen anything quite so beautiful.</p><p>“El?” Quentin said, his voice was just shot. Husky and low.</p><p>And <em> fuck, </em>he’d asked Eliot a question.</p><p>“It’s not just good--it’s fucking perfect, Q.” Eliot told him, his <em> own </em> voice sounding like he’d smoked about a pack of smokes in under an hour. “I could keep you like this forever, couldn’t I? You just love it so much--using that mouth, making me feel good.”</p><p>“Please, <em> yes.” </em>Quentin sighed, unable to press his dick against the bed, but squeezing his thighs together to try to alleviate some of the pressure.</p><p>“You’re just my sweet little cocksucker, aren’t you, peach?” Eliot said, then, feeling absolutely <em> debauched. </em>“Tell me.”</p><p>Somehow Quentin’s eyes grew twice as large in his face and his mouth dropped open. He squirmed, shooting a nervous look off to the side. So fucking innocent with drool and Eliot’s precum drying on his chin.</p><p>“Color?” Eliot asked, another way to ask<em> ‘Is that too much? Did I read you wrong?’ </em></p><p>Quentin took a long moment to answer him, sniffling absently, his hand squeezed Eliot’s side just the once, a quick tense. Eliot petted his hair back from his face where it was stuck to his forehead, sticking out wildly from Eliot’s own hands, softly. Quentin heaved a great big hitching breath, let out a tortured “Green.” and collapsed into Eliot’s good hip, his hand still wrapped around Eliot’s dick.</p><p>Eliot let out a quiet sigh of relief. He was just so much fun to play with.</p><p>Quentin tried to take him back in his mouth. Eliot held him back with a hand in his hair, keeping him away. Quentin tugged against the resistance, put his head back down.</p><p>“Then tell me what you are, Q.” Eliot prodded.</p><p>Quentin shook his head against Eliot’s hip, a low groan rolled out of him at being denied. Eliot could feel the heat from the flush of his skin there.</p><p>Still, despite his hiding, he let Eliot guide his face back up to the room without a fight. His eyes were just <em> wild </em> and he was biting his bottom lip so hard Eliot was shocked there wasn’t blood.</p><p>“Quentin,” Eliot said, pitching his voice lower. He pressed his thumb to Quentin’s bottom lip, trying to get him to release it. Because it was Eliot’s and he was the one who decided when it would feel a little sweet pain. “Come on. Let me hear it. What are you?”</p><p>He shuddered and looked absolutely wrecked, but his quiet voice broke through, <em> “‘m a sweet--” </em> a rough hitch of breath and then the rest all in one short exhale, “-- <em> little cocksucker.” </em></p><p>Eliot had Quentin up fully on his knees and pressed against him in the space between two heartbeats. He kissed him harshly, his hand gripping that soft chestnut hair and just <em> keeping him there. </em> Quentin moaned, and cried against him, pressing his dick right against Eliot’s side, seeking friction. His own hands gripped Eliot’s hair, <em> now it was a wash day </em> and tugged hard.</p><p>Eliot hissed, and swatted him on the ass, more to hear Quentin’s shocked punched-out little cry than to reprimand.</p><p><em> Chained to the radiator </em>. Eliot would be a kind captor to him. Honestly.</p><p>Quentin was crying when he pulled away, whether from the burning humiliation of what he’d said or from needing to come, Eliot didn’t know. He brought his hands down to Eliot’s shoulders, probably leaving little fingertip bruises there like a mantle.</p><p>Eliot went for broke.</p><p>“Baby, that’s <em> not exactly </em> what I said.” Quentin’s eyes shuddered, and he looked just <em> anguished. </em> Eliot ran a knuckle down his cheek tenderly, tracing the line of a tear that had escaped. “You’re not just <em> a sweet little cocksucker </em>. Whose are you?”</p><p>“Y--yours?” Quentin’s voice was a broken, hopeful thing. </p><p>Eliot kissed him sweetly on the nose, “You’re mine--so fucking smart. You’ve been so good for me--you want me to come?”</p><p>Quentin nodded silently against him. “--been a good boy?”</p><p>Eliot’s heart picked up double time. “The <em> best </em> for me. Climb back down there, you want me to come in your sweet mouth?”</p><p>He didn’t even answer, just hastily scooted back down to Eliot’s dick and opened up.</p><p>Really, honestly when Quentin <em> was </em> chained to the radiator, Eliot would bring him snacks all the time and keep him nice and cozy. But he would remain there for the rest of his days.</p><p>“--Course you do. There we go. Just stay there for me.” Eliot said, taking himself in hand.</p><p>He was more than slick enough, the pleasure building and building for so long now that all he had to do was just stare down at that sweet face looking at him so adoringly--trusting--and just let it all out with a few long, quick strokes. Eliot twisted with it, his body wracking finally in release, painting Quentin’s mouth, chin and cheekbones as he came. He was dimly aware of his own guttural sounds, rising and falling as his balls pulsed again and again, then weaker--then <em> too much. </em></p><p>Blearily, Eliot pressed a hand to Quentin’s head, petting over his hair with as much coordination as he could possibly manage. He was going to melt into the bed and let it absorb him into its warm embrace, never to see sunlight again.</p><p>And then Quentin whimpered and Eliot felt the frantic press of his erection against his leg. He peeked an eye open at the sight before him, wincing in oversensitivity as Quentin gave the tip of his dick a sweet little kitten lick. <em> Seductress. </em></p><p><em> “El, please. I need--” </em>Quentin was an absolute mess. Eliot’s mess to be exact.</p><p>Eliot shushed him, leaning down with uncoordinated hands, catching Quentin by the shoulders, urging him to sit further up the bed with him. They sat there against the headboard, catching their breath for a beat. Eliot kept a firm arm around Quentin, tucking him into his side--Quentin not so subtly rubbing off against his hip, trying to get some friction.</p><p>“That was <em> amazing </em>, peach.” Eliot uncapped the water and took a swig, then held it out to Quentin for all that he ignored the bottle in favor of trying to burrow into Eliot’s neck, smearing Eliot's own come there--a shower was definitely in order later. “Take a drink for me--there you go.”</p><p>Quentin managed to take the bottle himself, a little rivet of water escaped his lips and ran down his neck, pooling in the divot of his collarbone. Eliot followed the line with his fingertip. Goosebumps broke out along Quentin’s arms.</p><p>Satisfied to just moan miserably and try to burrow into Eliot until they became one single entity, Quentin passed the water back over. He was shaking, fine little tremors running up and down his body there in Eliot's arms. Red and leaking where his dick was pressed against Eliot’s hip. He didn’t make a move to touch himself--<em> so good-- </em>just rested a hand over Eliot’s chest, curling his fingers absently in the chest hair there. Eliot resisted the urge to twitch--ticklish.</p><p>“You’re so good, Q. Such a good boy.” Eliot petted his hair, felt Quentin’s wet little inhales against his neck. He didn’t seem as anguished as he had before--still, there was the matter of spanking his poor ass and letting him come. Eliot had a feeling that there would be more tears, he’d have to make sure that Quentin knew he was completely safe--he’d promised.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Eliot laughed to himself absently, always fishing, that Quentin.</p><p>He pressed a kiss to the top of Quentin’s head. God, he <em> wanted </em> this. To get to keep it. Forever. So fucking delusional.</p><p>“Yeah baby.” Eliot ran his hand up and down Quentin’s arm, nails passing over those goosebumps over and over. “Now you have to talk--we had a deal. You’re going to get to come. You needy, messy boy. You deserve that. But regardless, you have a little punishment coming to you. Can you tell me what it was, what were you going to be punished for?”</p><p>Quentin’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration but in those big glassy eyes of his he was <em> gone. </em> He shook his head, then looked a little panicked. “Uh--sorry--I’m, <em> Eliot. </em>I can’t--”</p><p>“Shh, it’s okay.” Eliot quieted him, feeling a familiar thrum of arousal course through him. He just <em> loved </em> this part, when a sub was so out of it, so overcome that Eliot got to swoop in and make it alright. “It’s okay, peach. We agreed that you’d get a spanking tonight. For all the times you didn’t follow your rules. You just get so overwhelmed and quiet for me, you forget your rules. But you’ve been just so good for me, I think we’ll get you all wrung out and sweet before your spanking? You want that? You want to come for me?”</p><p>His eyes lit up, bright beacons against the night. Quentin may have been out of it but he <em> certainly </em> was with it enough to answer that one, “I--yes. That would be nice.”</p><p>“It’ll be real swell.” Eliot kissed him then, reaching down, curling his hand around Quentin’s dick again, <em>finally. </em>Pulling back, “One fine day, I’m going to spend my <em>time</em> on this sweet little body, get my fingers inside you and see what pretty sounds you’ll make for me.”</p><p>Quentin shook into him, heaving great big shuddering breaths like he was in pain. His face pressed again into Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot didn’t need to look at his face to know his eyes were pinched completely closed. He was probably biting his lip--still the whimpers escaped.</p><p>“Won’t that be nice? Would you like me to tie you to the bedposts and have my way with you?” Eliot asked into Quentin’s hair, watching his own hand stroke him, the glistening head emerging from his fist with each motion. He couldn’t get his other hand down there to play with Quentin’s balls, which was a real tragedy considering how tight and drawn up they were, poised for release. “I think that’s just what I’ll do. Tie you up so you’re at my mercy for <em> hours. </em>Until you’re begging me to let you come, maybe giving yourself pretty little bruises from tugging on the cuffs.”</p><p>Quentin let out a ragged cry, bit down on Eliot’s chest where his head was nestled. Eliot was walking out of this encounter with more marks on him than <em> Quentin </em> at this point. He needed to up his game.</p><p>Eliot hissed, not unfamiliar with the heady mix of pleasure and pain when doled out in the right proportions. He grasped Quentin by the shoulder, letting go of his dick in the process, but it needed to be done. He needed to get Quentin sprawled out on the bed in a loose diagonal--needed to press him down with his own body, feel Quentin thrash against him when Eliot got his hand back around his dick. Watch Quentin’s eyes flash open at the sudden change in positioning, at Eliot bearing down on him.</p><p>He pinned him as best as he could, half on top of him, using his upper body and good leg, trying to keep the other out of the way and out of any stress positions. Still, his hip throbbed warningly when Eliot bent the good leg, got his thigh pressing tightly down across Quentins.</p><p>Quentin was at a real danger of hyperventilating, babbling nonsense and Eliot’s own name and <em> please </em> just over and over again. That compact body of his struggling against Eliot so beautifully.</p><p>Eliot pressed their foreheads together, kissed Quentin sweetly while the other man cried out and fell apart.</p><p>For all that Quentin had been desperately waiting to come--for whatever reason his body just didn’t want to give it up. He could tell Quentin was starting to get agitated, overwrought with it. Eliot stroked his dick and sucked at Quentin’s neck until his own purple mark bloomed there. All the while Quentin writhed and moaned.</p><p>“What do you need, baby?” Eliot asked him after Quentin made a particularly pained whine and a tear dribbled out of his left eye, wetting the sweaty hair at his temples.</p><p>“--<em> Want, I want it-- </em>Please, El! I can’t--it’s not enough.”</p><p>“Peach--focus on me, okay? It’s alright, we’ll make it happen.” Eliot said, slowing his hand, pressing it to Quentin’s shuddering stomach. Quentin whimpered at the loss. “What do you want?”</p><p><em> “Fuck--I can’t </em>. Eliot. Don’t wanna be bad.”</p><p>Eliot could have cried then. Big massive weepy tears over how forlorn Quentin sounded.</p><p>“Quentin, you aren’t bad.” Eliot told him, firm but tender. “You’re--fuck, the best. You are so good for me. Do you want my mouth?”</p><p>He shook his head firmly, eyes frantic. “No--wanna see you. Be close.”</p><p>“Okay--let’s just move you for a second.” Eliot said, inspired. He pulled himself off of Quentin, his own dick swelling once again with interest. For now he ignored it. Eliot laid himself back down on the covers and pulled Quentin on top of him, parted his legs enough so that Quentin was straddling his good leg.</p><p>There was lube within easy reach--Eliot popped the cap and got a good handful, even if Quentin was so fucking messy, constantly dripping for him, more lube was never a bad idea. He slicked Quentin up with his hand, smearing it across both of their stomachs in the process.</p><p>“There we go,” Eliot said, “Don’t worry about anything other than you right now, peach. Colors and safewords are in play, but not the rules. Don’t worry about using that brain for anything other than getting yourself off.” Quentin nodded. The weight of him was pleasant if sticky and warm. “Now let’s get that mouth of yours something to make it happy.”</p><p>Quentin looked a little lost and sad up there above him. Eliot kissed him, told him he was a good boy and guided his head down to Eliot’s own chest-- “There we go, take whatever you want, peach.”</p><p>Eliot jolted when Quentin latched onto a nipple with abandon--<em> another time </em>.</p><p>Then it’s just time to lay back and bask in the heaven of his own making, Quentin squirming on top of him using Eliot’s body and the hand he squeezed between them to make a nice, warm channel for him to rut against.  All the while Quentin mouthed across his collarbones, leaving a slick mess of saliva there to cool in the bedroom air. He was hungry and desperate, there on top of Eliot, so fucking pretty.</p><p>Eliot ran a hand down his back, hitched him impossibly closer with a rough handful of his ass. Quentin let out punched-out little grunts against him with every twitch of his hips. Faster and faster until it finally happened.</p><p>Quentin went tense and silent against him for a long, chilling moment and then he cried out, spilling between them across Eliot’s knuckles and his stomach.</p><p>In the aftermath, Quentin was actually now completely <em> useless. </em>Eyes closed, breath coming in short pants against Eliot’s chest, making him shiver. Quentin made a miserable sound when Eliot let go of his dick, gently as he could all things considered. The other man was boneless on top of him, a heavy weight pressing him into the bed. Just surrounding him in that Pantene Pro-V smell and sweat-slicked skin.</p><p>Eliot pressed him back against the bed, rolling him off delicately. Quentin flopped an uncoordinated hand at him blindly as he leaned away for a hot towel out of the warmer by the bed (Seriously the best investment. Such a multitasker.) and gasped when Eliot wiped them both down with it. He threw the towel blindly over a shoulder and turned back to the boy in question.</p><p>
  <em> Asleep. </em>
</p><p>Mouth open, lightly snoring.</p><p>Asleep.</p><p>He metaphorically patted himself on the back and shook out a big fleece throw blanket from the bedside table--see, more prepared!--and threw it across Quentin.</p><p>Eliot left the bed for a few minutes to throw on some pajama pants and grab some provisions from the kitchen--<em> it wasn’t even 9. </em> He felt the same kind of bone deep jacked-up exhaustion that he had in the glory days when he’d get home from a night of dancing and debauchery just as the sun was rising. Like he wanted to sleep but <em> couldn’t </em>, not when the world was about to come alive in the daylight.</p><p>Quentin slept for about half an hour next to him. Eliot stayed with him, sitting up in bed with his iPad. At some point Quentin wormed a hand out of the blanket and held onto Eliot’s knee for dear life. Eliot smiled fondly at it.</p><p>Eventually though, Quentin woke up, confused, rubbing his eyes and looking around blearily.</p><p>“Hey, baby,” Eliot scooted down the bed again, gathering Quentin close in his blanket, rubbing over his shoulders and back.</p><p>“--fell asleep?” Quentin kept blinking at him, long <em> slow </em> blinks.</p><p>Chuckling, Eliot nodded, “Yes, Q. You feeling good?”</p><p>He smacked his lips and looked around, trying to decide on an answer. “I think--did I call you a <em> motherfucker?” </em></p><p>Quentin looked somewhat perturbed when Eliot burst out laughing, “At some point tonight. Yes. You did. Not for the first time. Probably not the last. It was charming.”</p><p>Nodding, “My brain feels heavy.”</p><p>Once again, Eliot entertained what joy it would bring him when Quentin and Eliot’s radiator became acquainted.</p><p>“That’s okay. You don’t have to do anything now.” Eliot told him.</p><p>“That’s good.” Quentin mused. He reached a hand out of the blanket, a finger poking one of the marks he’d left on Eliot with his teeth. “I did that.”</p><p>“Sure did, peach.” Eliot nodded. A slow smile rolled across Quentin’s face. He tilted his face up sweetly to Eliot. Nothing could be done but to kiss him, burrow a hand under the blanket to run down his flank.</p><p>“Huh.” Quentin said, pulling away.</p><p>He let Eliot bully him into sitting up, wrapped up snugly in the blanket so all that was visible was his head with his hair hopelessly mused and big his owlish eyes. Eliot fed him broken off pieces of rich, good chocolate and slices of honeycrisp apple. And Quentin blushed and accepted it, quiet and observant.</p><p>“You wanna come back up a little?” Eliot asked. It had been a while.</p><p>Quentin shook his head, “Naw.”</p><p>This was quite possibly the least Quentin had ever spoken in their 7 years of friendship--was it really friendship? For Eliot, yes. </p><p>It was nice to just lay there with him, stroke his hair and let his mind wander.</p><p>Ask Quentin deep, dark personal questions while his guard was down.</p><p>
  <em> Okay not really.  </em>
</p><p>But he did ask what Quentin liked, how he was feeling and between long, drawn out pauses so that simple sentences practically took minutes to accomplish, Quentin told him he liked that Eliot told him what to do, that they both got to come, that he didn’t have to think for a while.</p><p>And then Quentin had a question of his own--</p><p>“You said--” Quentin paused to nuzzle into Eliot’s hand. “--earlier, you said I was yours. Did you mean it?”</p><p>The air left the room. Every last bit of it.</p><p><em> Fuck. </em>He’d been caught in his own trap.</p><p>Leave it to Coldwater to be so out of it that he couldn’t remember his own name but that--he remembered that.</p><p>Quentin squirmed restlessly beside him under Eliot’s hand. “Yes. I meant it.” Eliot told him--and then because he was <em> the fucking worst, </em> “When we’re doing this. Yes. You’re mine.”</p><p>What a fucking coward he was. Seriously. Just the worst.</p><p>Quentin just nodded once and tucked his head into Eliot’s chest silently.</p><p>
  <em> Fuck.  </em>
</p><p>Eliot shook himself, “Let’s get you in the shower, you can help me detangle.”</p><p>Quentin perked up then, always so ready to make himself useful. He let Eliot bundle him out of the bed and into the bathroom, under the warm shower spray.</p><p>Eliot relished the feeling of their bodies slipping against each other as they went through the process of washing and shampooing. Quentin’s feet almost went out from under him when Eliot got his fingers into his wet hair, massaging in shampoo with sure movements.</p><p>He sat down on the little shelf at the end of the tub, hissing at the cool porcelain against his ass, his body not <em> loving </em> the bending but Quenin wasn’t tall enough to reach to do his job. So Eliot sat there, heart full to bursting while Quentin smoothed a big handful of conditioner through his hair and worked with a wide-tooth comb on Eliot’s curls. Eliot, busied himself with mouthing along Quentin’s stomach and hipbones--at the perfect height before him and pulling little distracted grumbles out of the other man.</p><p>Toweled off, Eliot dressed Quentin in his own cornflower blue silk pajamas because he was a real glutton for punishment at this point. He threw on a kimono and nothing else. They sat on the couch together, Eliot sitting up against the cushions, Quentin’s head pillowed on his thigh, half paying attention to an old episode of Grand Design. Eliot played with his damp hair, running the tips of his fingers over it again and again, slipping like silk across the pads of his fingertips.</p><p>Eventually Quentin grew restless--when wasn’t he? Creeping his hand under the confines of Eliot’s robe to drive him absolutely wild with cautious little touches to his thighs.</p><p>“What’s going on, Q? Building a house into a crumbling British cliffside not entertaining enough for you?” Eliot smirked. Quentin huffed and rolled over onto his back, a little frowny and pink-cheeked.</p><p>“I like this.” He said quietly. Considering. “Um---but.”</p><p>“No ‘buts’, <em> please.” </em>Eliot begged. Quentin’s hair was drying fluffy on one side and flat on the other where it had been pressed to Eliot’s lap.</p><p>Quentin rolled his eyes, looking a little more playful, “--but you said I was getting like a spanking at some point? And…” he let the rest of the sentence just die out.</p><p>Eliot burst out laughing, jolting Quentin’s head a bit in the process. Because this was just so fucking <em> classic. </em> So classic for him to tell Quentin that he was going to punish him and then promptly forget to spoil him instead, only to have <em> Quentin </em>remind him.</p><p>“Are you tattling on yourself right now?” Eliot brushed at the wetness leaking from his eyes.</p><p><em> “I’m just saying--” </em> Quentin said. And yes. He was. He totally was.</p><p>Eliot tried to draw himself back to some level of respectability all the while little sparks of hilarity pinged around his insides. Did he need to set a Google Calendar reminder for this shit?</p><p>Margo was so right--he was such a pushover.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Eliot shushed him, a finger over Quentin’s lips. Quentin went a little cross-eyed trying to get a look at it. “It’s still early and you’re such a good boy to remind me you earned yourself a little spanking. You want that?”</p><p>He’d never be able to know for sure, but he got the feeling Quentin deliberately didn’t answer even when Eliot lifted his finger from his lips.</p><p>“You’re insatiable, Quentin Coldwater.”</p><p>Quentin shrugged, <em> who me? </em></p><p>Eliot’s heart did a stupid flutter.</p><p>“Alright--that’s it!” Eliot exclaimed. Quentin went rigid and red, eyebrows up to his hairline. “Here we go! Up, up, up!” Eliot bid him. The enthusiasm more for his own sake than Quentin’s.</p><p>Quentin scrambled up and then almost fell off the couch because of Eliot’s classy as fuck silk pajamas slipping against the couch. Eliot caught him with hands around his middle, they both burst out laughing.</p><p>
  <em> “I swear to god, one of us is gonna end up in the emergency room--fucking comedy of errors...” </em>
</p><p>Now to do this without jacking up his hip entirely…</p><p>Because surgically repaired joints and a lapful of squirmy boy really didn’t mix. Or they did sometimes--it was complicated. And he wanted to be available to any kind of morning hijinks that were possible.</p><p>Eliot could go with the old fashioned bent over the table approach, or the arm of the couch--no, Quentin would probably hate that. He could put Quentin up on his hands and knees up on the couch, facing away--but that felt too detached and frankly Eliot got just as much out of someone squirming on him as he did the spanking itself. Over <em> both </em> knees was just out-- <em> Aha! </em></p><p>Quentin looked at him skeptically--couldn’t resist being a little contrary even in this, <em> little know-it-all </em> --when Eliot sat back against the chaise lounge part of the sectional, his legs stretched out before him and told Quentin to lay across Eliot’s right thigh on his stomach. His legs spread out around Eliot’s torso (he was really in danger of taking a foot to the face here), the leg across Eliot’s bad hip ended up on the arm of the chair which really just served the purpose of spreading Quentin out even more deliciously. His ass was just <em> right there, </em>right in Eliot’s lap.</p><p>“I change, my mind--this is terrible.” Quentin muttered, his face pressed basically into the fabric of the couch between Eliot’s shins.</p><p>“Well, it’s a good thing you reminded me then, huh?” Eliot ran his hands up and down the backs of Quentin’s thighs, over the smooth warm silk of his own pajamas. They weren’t going to make it out of this unscathed. Eliot wasn’t that lucky.</p><p>Quentin shot him a dirty look over his shoulder, all the intimidation of a puppy.</p><p>“Well excuse me for adhering to the schedule you’d laid out--”</p><p>Eliot ran a knuckle over the seam of the pajamas, right down his crack and over his balls where they were clearly outlined in the fabric. Quentin yelped and pressed his face back into the couch.</p><p>“Oh my god, you’re such a <em> brat.” </em>Eliot said with every ounce of fondness he had in him. “You need this.” he said, hands reaching for the waistband of the pants. “Gimme a color, Q?”</p><p>Quentin sighed but looked back over his shoulder, a little resigned look on his face, but also proud of himself. “Green--just, get on with it.”</p><p>“Remind me to put you back under again soon, I much prefer it when you’re all sweet for me--” Eliot muttered to himself, tugging the waistband down to the tops of his thighs. “Hey--maybe I’ll just spank you till it happens again.”</p><p>Quentin squealed as he was bared to the room, his spine bowing up like a cat in agitation. Eliot quieted him, a hand on his tailbone over the fabric of the pajama top. “El--<em> warn a guy! </em> Shit! You think that’ll happen?”</p><p>There was a very real chance that Eliot was actually in a coma somewhere and this was just a dream that his brain had cooked up to keep him happily occupied.</p><p>“Yeah,” Eliot said, palming Quentin’s ass now that he was finally up close and personal with it. He’d been correct in his initial appraisal and nickname, Quentin’s butt was just as firm and round as a ripe summer peach. A little fuller than he would have initially expected under all his ill fitting clothing. Fuzzy. <em> Right there </em>. “Endorphins get moving through the body, it’s really nice when you’re all warmed up properly.”</p><p>“--Wait, Eliot.” Quentin’s little head popped up comically to look at Eliot over his shoulder, “Does this--have you done this part? Not the giving--”</p><p>Prepare to have your mind blown, Coldwater.</p><p>“A few times--”</p><p>
  <em> “Oh my god, did Margo do it?” </em>
</p><p>Eliot squinted at him, “As a matter of fact--yes. Mistress Bambi and I go way back--sometimes, if we’re in the right headspace, sometimes it happens.”</p><p>Quentin’s eyes went as large as saucers.</p><p>“Never mind that now, Q. I can see you plotting that naughty book of yours. This is about you now--”</p><p>Quentin shuddered, “Okay--I trust you. <em> Just don’t </em>--I’d like to be able to like sit down tomorrow. I have a meeting thing.”</p><p>Eliot chuckled. “Never fear, peach. I’m not going to leave you black and blue.” He’d honestly be content to just stroke across and squeeze the soft unblemished skin of Q’s ass for hours. On the phone with his internet provider. Watching TV. Doing whatever, just with a hand on Quentin’s butt.</p><p>“Thanks.” A quiet thing, tucked down into the couch again.</p><p>Eliot smirked, continued to get leisurely familiar with Quentin’s ass, bringing a bit of blood to the surface, getting him used to it until the tension dropped from Quentin’s shoulders and he rested himself loosely over Eliot’s leg.</p><p>“I’m gonna warm you up a bit now, peach.” Eliot said, taking off his rings, making a neat little pile of them beside them on the couch. “Feels better that way. Then you’re gonna get 10 real smacks.”</p><p>Quentin’s breath hitched and he made an intelligible sound against the couch, ground his pelvis absently against Eliot’s thigh. He could feel Quentin getting hard again. No pajamas would make it out unscathed.</p><p>He made the sweetest little sound at the first slap that Eliot landed, for all that it was a glancing, playful thing. Still Quentin shuddered when it landed. Eliot watched, a light pink mark sprang to life across his left cheek vaguely in the shake of Eliot’s hand. He wasn’t going hard enough to see the definition of his fingers.</p><p>“Okay?”</p><p>“--Okay!”</p><p>Eliot smirked to himself and set about his task at hand--see, he <em> could </em> do labor, so long as the labor resulted in Quentin’s whines and panting against the couch. He laid out light smacks all over Quentin’s ass, rubbing over the marks in between to sooth him, bring him back down before he did it again. All the while Quentin sunk into the rhythm of it with Eliot, melting into the couch, tensing when the blow hit, melting back down again. And again and again until he was Honeycrisp pink all over, rutting against Eliot’s leg like he wasn’t aware of his own movement.</p><p>“You ready for the real deal now, Peach?”</p><p>Quentin nodded into the couch immediately. “Yes, please.”</p><p>Fuck if he didn’t love manners.</p><p>“Okay, you’re gonna be good for me. You’re gonna count them out loud. All ten. I know you can do that, make me so proud.”</p><p>Eliot pressed his left hand to Quentin’s lower back, steading him there. He raised his right hand and landed a firm hit to Quentin’s ass with a resounding <em> smack! </em></p><p>Quentin jolted, crying out, “<em> ELIOT!” </em>One of his hands gripped Eliot’s ankle, the other clawed at the end of the couch.</p><p>“Color?”</p><p>Quentin panted and squirmed, pressing away from Eliot’s hand where it rubbed into the mark he’d left behind, even redder now.</p><p>“<em> Fuck-- </em>uh, green!” Quentin shook his head, “And I guess, One.”</p><p>“Very good.” Eliot gave him a sweet pinch right to where his thigh met cheek because he may have been a bit of a sadist. Quentin keened. “Just keep counting for me--you’re doing so good.”</p><p>Quentin let out a hysterical little laugh.</p><p>Eliot gave him another, this one on the opposite cheek. Quentin’s reaction was no smaller than it had been the first time. He shuddered and struggled away from Eliot’s hand after, Eliot gentled him with quiet praise.</p><p>“<em> Two, jesus.” </em></p><p>Three, four, and five came in rather quick succession. Right, left, right with barely any time in between them. Quentin’s punched-out voice calling out the numbers one after the other, thighs tensing around Eliot from the stinging of the slaps.</p><p>“Three”</p><p>“Four”</p><p>“Five--El, <em> fuck! </em>”</p><p>Eliot smiled to himself, rubbing his hands over the heated skin before him, getting a hand on the waistband of the pajama pants and tugging them even further down. Quentin was hard and leaking against Eliot’s thigh, his balls pressed back further between his thighs from the position he was in.</p><p>“You like it so much--” Eliot mused, almost to himself. Quentin let out a miserable groan as Eliot explored him. “You’re so cute down here, Quentin.” He told the other man, pressing curious touches to his balls and the smooth skin behind. Then, (once again <em> maybe a sadist) </em> Eliot pressed his thumb firmly to that secret space, briefly acquainting himself with Quentin’s prostate from the outside. You know, to be polite.</p><p>Quentin flailed and really did nearly kick Eliot in the face. Luckily, Eliot dodged him.</p><p>“Please just--<em> keep going.” </em>Quentin whined from a million miles away.</p><p>“Come on--you’re halfway there, I was giving you a little reward.” Eliot said, like it wasn’t for his own benefit to press his hands to the globes of Quentin’s ass and reveal the most secret part of him.</p><p>Quentin thrashed like a fish out of water. Eliot ran a curious fingertip to press across his furled hole just to watch it tense at the attention.</p><p>Of course he was lovely there as well.</p><p><em> “Oh my god.” </em> Quentin moaned to himself, his hand clutched Eliot’s ankle harder. “Eliot, <em> come on. </em>”</p><p>Reluctantly, Eliot let go, returned to his original task, vowing he’d be back as soon as possible. He’d been hard before, now he was absolutely rock solid against Quentin, arousal thrumming through him like fire.</p><p>He surprised Quentin with another smack, this one to the tender underside of his cheek, nearly at his untouched thigh.</p><p>“Six!” Quentin yelped.</p><p>He drew his dull fingernails across his cheeks lightly, Quentin hissed like a scalded cat and his spin curved dramatically. He fell back down to Eliot’s leg, pressed his face to the side so Eliot could see that sweet open mouth of his.</p><p>“Sorry, couldn’t resist. How you doing down there?”</p><p>Quentin looked up at him with one glassy eye, “Green--come on, El. Give it to me.”</p><p>Brilliant boy.</p><p>And so Eliot <em> did. </em></p><p>He raised both hands and brought them both down at the same time on both cheeks, resulting in a louder smack reverberating around the apartment. Jesus, if she was home, Margo was probably going to town on herself in the tub to the cries Quentin was making. It made him preen a bit.</p><p>“Seven--” Quentin exclaimed, ending on a long moan.</p><p>“That’s good, come on peach--let me hear you.” Eliot raised his hand, landing another hard smack with one hand right across his crack, nowhere near his balls where they were pulled up tight but still vulnerable. But still, they were in the vicinity. Quentin startled and Eliot had to throw his forearm over his back to keep him from kneeing Eliot in the dick.</p><p>“<em> Ohmygod, eight. El.” </em> </p><p>He found himself panting right alone with Quentin on the next one, the penultimate strike, rigid and right against a mark that was already there, doubling down.</p><p>Quentin sobbed then and pressed hard down against Eliot’s thigh, dribbling precome through the silk of his pants bunched around his thighs.</p><p>He was quiet then, apart from the tragic little sounds he was making down by Eliot’s feet. Eliot was content to let him take a break, pressing his thumbs into the tense lines of Quentin’s hamstrings, trying to force some of the tension out of him.</p><p>
  <em> “El.” </em>
</p><p>“Come on--you can do this.”</p><p>A sniffle--<em> a crier-- </em></p><p>“Nine.”</p><p>“That’s so good, peach. You’re so fucking good for me. Last one, okay and then we’re done. Can you be a good boy for me one last time?” Eliot asked, preparing to lift his hand one last time.</p><p>But then Quentin had the audacity to sound annoyed, “‘M always gonna be good--if it’s for you.”</p><p>Eliot gave him one last spank, hearing rushing in his ears when Quentin tried to curl in on himself yet again. He was talking absolute nonsense then, telling Quentin just how good and perfect it was, and in the chaos--</p><p>“Ten--”</p><p>“Yes, yes. Ten. Perfect.” </p><p>And then Eliot was reaching down and getting a hand around Quentin again, jacking him off with quick efficiency, his dick pulled down between his legs where they were spread across Eliot’s lap. Quentin writhed and panted--<em> shouted </em> when Eliot sucked two fingers briefly into his own mouth and then pressed them to his hole, not begging entrance, just rubbing slick little circles.</p><p>“--Can I? I’m gonna--”</p><p>Eliot had never even <em> told </em> Quentin he had to ask.</p><p>“Yes, do it. Come for me, Q.” Eliot growled as Quentin’s body drew in on itself and he cried out, pulsing into Eliot’s hand.</p><p>Quentin convulsed with the force of his orgasm, moaning continuously, that pink ass of his just writhing there in Eliot’s lap, just <em> there. </em></p><p>It was nothing to get the robe open, throw back the flimsy ties and wrap a hand around himself. In a matter of a few pathetic strokes, he was coming across his own hand and the glorious expanse of Quentin’s pink cheeks.</p><p><em> “Fuck, Eliot! </em> Did you just--”</p><p>Eliot stroked himself through the aftershocks and collapsed back against the couch, finally opening his eyes after a moment to a scene straight out of a dream he’d had before.</p><p>Quentin sprawled out on his lap, his backside a mess of white splatters across his tender skin, looking over his shoulder at Eliot with a shocked-blissed out expression.</p><p>They just stared at each other then, panting as they came down from the high of orgasm and the exchange of an excellent spanking.</p><p>And then Quentin was scrambling up on uncoordinated limbs, out of his lap and then up over, him straddling Eliot up on his knees--keeping the pressure off of Eliot’s pelvis, such a good memory. Quentin kissed him desperately, hands clutching at wherever on Eliot he could hold onto. Biting and keening against him when Eliot couldn’t help himself to palm his ass where it was all pink and tender.</p><p>“Eliot, that was <em> amazing.” </em> Quentin said, barely any room between their lips now. This was a different version of Quentin post-orgasm. Still strung out and sweet, but not content to lay back and let Eliot coddle and hold him. He was still somehow so worked up.</p><p>They made out on the couch like teenagers, eventually slumping down so they both were laying there, lips pressed together while Quentin’s hands delved into Eliot’s robe, seeking any skin he could find there. Eliot held him there with a hand to the back of his neck and the other on his ass. Because <em> honestly </em> it was right there.</p><p>It was nice, to return to that headspace, where just kissing was enough and any thought of orgasm was hidden away in the shadows--made it easier to catalog what made Quentin hitch against him and how he’d make the sweetest little groans into Eliot’s mouth when he tightened his grip on Quentin’s neck just the slightest. It was all somehow innocent despite the fact that Eliot was basically completely naked for the open front of his robe and Quentin still had his pajama pants down around his thighs. Or even the fact that Quentin was a mess of both of them and rubbing against the bare skin of Eliot’s thighs. Moaning with overstimulation but still <em> he kept on doing it. </em></p><p>Quentin was a prime candidate for a bit of edging.</p><p>By the time that they pulled away from each other, Eliot’s lips were buzzing and his cheeks felt raw from both of their five o’clock shadow rubbing against each other. Quentin was no better a sight, his lips were wondrously red and bruised.</p><p>Everything was sticky and slow and Quentin was <em> there </em> with him. Not drifting off, barely able to answer his questions. He was present, eyes blown out but searching Eliot’s. He pulled up the pajama pants, ruined though they were on the inside.</p><p>“I think I like this too much--” Quentin said. His voice was rough from all of the caterwauling he’d done all night. He screwed up his mouth to the side, thinking. “Do you ever--no, that’s stupid.”</p><p>Eliot propped his head up on his hand, elbow bent. “Now you have to tell me.”</p><p>Quentin sighed and somehow blushed <em> again. </em></p><p>“When we first met--” Quentin paused, searching for the correct words. “Did you--did you want to fuck me? Is that what it was?”</p><p>For all that Eliot had experimented with drugs and alcohol to numb his senses over the years--he still had a nearly eidetic memory. For people. Names. Faces. What they drank. What they liked.</p><p>It made him a good host or party guest. Even fucked up beyond recognition, he’d remember the name of a person he met once in the basement of a rave six years ago.</p><p>He could see it then, with perfect clarity what had happened. Three drinks in his apartment before the party, a spot of ecstasy to make the boring book release party somewhat <em> bearable. </em> Standing on the subway, flask in hand among the commuters. Then, more champagne. Margo-- <em> ”Behave.” </em>and then--</p><p>Standing there, solemn and sweaty against the wall. And Eliot had thought <em> bingo! </em></p><p>“Yes.” Eliot said. “I would have taken you to the bathroom and sucked you off--left you there and gone back to the party. I did that--seduced the straightish guy into letting me have him.” Quentin opened and closed his mouth, silently arguing. “Yes, I know. You’re bi, but I didn’t then. I liked how vulnerable you looked.”</p><p>“I hated that party.” Quentin said, almost to himself.</p><p>“I’m glad I didn’t fuck you then, Q.” Eliot said. Quentin’s eyebrows drew together. “I poisoned everything I touched back then. I would have fucked you a grand total of three times and then blew you off--always want them wanting more.”</p><p>“Oh.” Quentin said. And there was really nothing Eliot could glean from it. Those two letters.</p><p>“I’m not going to do that this time.” Eliot said, it slipping out before he could stop it. And all he could think was about asking Quentin if he ever wanted to just come over and <em> not </em> have sex. Or if Eliot could go over and see the infamous apartment that Margo claimed possessed the most comfortable couch in existence. “For as long as you’ll have me--I’m yours to fulfill all your dirty little fantasies.”</p><p>And, you know if later that night; after the emergency soaking of the pajamas in the bathroom sink, brushing their teeth side by side, and the careful application of aloe vera to Quentin’s perfect bottom, Eliot thought to himself that just having this piece of Quentin was enough after years of having nothing then, that was fine. </p><p>Quentin could belong to Eliot when he submitted to him. And who even knew how long that would be for.</p><p>But Eliot would belong to Quentin forever.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WHEW. Okay. So that was just about the most intense thing I've ever written. Let me know what you think in the comments!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Martin Catwin Crowns a King (Part 1)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Wow here I am back on my two-part chapter bullshit. Am I capable of writing a sex scene under 5k? I don't think so.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Just how exactly was Quentin supposed to sit in on his quarterly meeting of RWG (Romance Writers Guild) when all he could think about was how his ass was sore?</p><p>He’d read about this very predicament just <em> so </em>many times. Over and over again. A hot spanking scene aboard a viking ship. Or in some romantic suspense book mostly about murder that he’d skimmed through for just the love scenes. </p><p>Hell--he’d even <em> written </em> one himself. Kind of. Granted, Ciaran’s scene had been an interrogation that he’d been saved by Sebastian from after a single magical lash from the Fairy Queen’s soldiers.</p><p>And Quentin had written that he rode a horse the next day <em> no problem! </em> What a hack he was, he should go back and demand to make a revision. Put out some kind of retraction in the paper.</p><p>Because Quentin had barely been able to ride the Subway to midtown for the meeting without feeling like a total pervert; blushing and wiggling to find a comfortable sitting position until he just had to stand up and give up on the whole thing.</p><p>And now he was supposed to drink Panera coffee and eat a danish surrounded by his peers like this?</p><p>It wasn’t great!</p><p>It was wonderfully terrible. The reminder it brought him. Of laying there across Eliot’s lap and how the stinging pain of Eliot’s hand had given way to <em> heatheatheat </em> that encompassed him. And now, he was sitting there on a plastic chair trying to keep his cool while he was supposed to be paying attention to the meeting--something about Amazon and negotiations for ebook publishing that was all very important but not as important as willing his erection to go down with every twitch.</p><p><em> Despite </em>the fact that he’d only just had an outstanding orgasm that morning wrapped up in Eliot’s arms like a little spoon with Eliot’s massive erection pressed against his ass, his lips pressed to his ear telling him all about how he’d been grinding back into Eliot over and over for the last 10 minutes. And then Eliot had slipped a hand into his pants, held Quentin across his chest with his other arm and pined him there while he jerked him off.</p><p>Eliot could have a very lucrative job as a phone sex operator. The man could <em> paint a picture </em> with his words. He should have <em> Quentin’s job. </em> Because clearly the writing thing wasn’t working out for him--okay it <em> was </em> (hello, bestselling author and executive producer) but the new book, <em> that </em> was still an elusive slippery thing in his mind.</p><p>So Quentin just sat there, absolutely still in a big old room of people who wrote about fucking for a <em> living </em> (except for the clean romance people, which hell yeah if that was their thing, but it <em> wasn’t </em> for Quentin) and tried not to freak out too much.</p><p>He made it through alright, packing up his bag along with everyone else so they could escape to one of the last nice autumn days they had before everything became slush. </p><p>Quentin stopped to talk to a few people along the way. </p><p>Poppy was working on her long-running series featuring Aliens from an ice planet who had just truly massive dicks (the first book of which had made <em> Quentin </em> blush and politely put down by page 20). Seriously--they gave even Eliot a run for his money.</p><p>Joyce thanked him for his review of her last book--a truly awesome historical mystery that Quentin had read in one sitting. Eye patches needed more representation in literature.</p><p>Marina glared at him and told him, “Hey Coldwater--don’t fuck up the Clockwork TV show too much, Okay?”</p><p>Pearl Sunderland--their chapter chairperson and kind of a <em> big fucking deal </em> shook her head and patted Quentin on the shoulder as she walked by them, “Congratulations, Quentin. We’re all on the edge of our seats, waiting for your next book as well.”</p><p>Quentin’s stomach bottomed out. They’d be waiting for a <em> hell of a long time </em> it seemed at the rate he was going.</p><p>“It’s ah--work in progress.” Quentin said.</p><p>Still, Sunderland gave him a reserved, small smile and turned to go.</p><p>Quentin took the subway home, electing to stand the whole way. It didn’t <em> hurt </em> so much as it was the kind of fascinating feeling of pressing into a bruise that had already formed. But he’d looked at his butt in the mirror of Eliot’s bathroom (and then again in Panera’s single person restroom to confirm) and he was pretty much unblemished. Maybe a little pink in some areas but he could still <em> feel it </em> there under his skin, what Eliot had done.</p><p>Overall, he felt a weird sense of accompaniment about the whole thing. Like he’d been good for Eliot despite the fact that he’d earned a spanking--and if punishments were like that then maybe Quenin could be a little <em> bad </em> if he wanted to.</p><p>Jesus, he sounded like some pop song about not being a good, pure role model anymore.</p><p>He let himself back into his apartment, did his weekly clear-out of the fridge and put away the new food he’d picked up on the way home. Feeling kind of sad as he stacked the little boxes with their labels and instructions.</p><p>Then he puttered around on his computer for a few hours, checking over his calendar for the week. He had a phone call with the head writer for the <em> Clockwork </em> series so she could ask him any questions about the world as she and her team worked on the first draft of the script. And Margo needed him to drop by her office to confirm things for the book release party--as though she would ever acquiesce to any of his changes. And then he had a Skype meeting with one of the bookstores he’d be going to for the book tour in ( <em> Yikes </em> 6 weeks.)--</p><p>His phone beeped at him:</p><p>
  <b>“Catwins fed last night--keep an eye on Martin. Lil dude’s got mad eye boogers. -Kady”</b>
</p><p>Of course it was <em> Martin </em>. It was always Martin somehow.</p><p>Quentin swiped his keys from the bowl by the door and a couple cans of wet food and bounded out the door--they didn’t usually like to come out during the day for him but fuck if he wasn’t going to try to get a look at Martin’s goopy eyes now that he knew they were a concern.</p><p>So he spent a considerable part of his afternoon on his belly with a can of wet food, trying to coax a feral cat out from under the car where they lived. No dice.</p><p>Quentin left again needing to change his clothes and get a real--uninterrupted shower. Plus he Julia wanted to Skype.</p><p>He tried to fill his afternoon and evening with small, menial tasks to keep his mind off of worrying about Martin. He went through his mail and shredded everything shreddable. He went through the enormous stack of books in his room and threw a bunch into a bag to fill up one of the Little Free Libraries down the street. People seemed to take them quickly when Quentin threw galley copies of things he’d been sent into there. The few books he kept (the <em> really good ones </em> or the ones that continued a series he already owned) went onto the stuffed shelves of his office.</p><p>Quentin was trying to make room for one of the books near the T’s (yes it was alphabetized) when he spotted a familiar set of three books, each with a black spine and familiar writing; one in red, one in white, one in blue. All of them by Sunderland.</p><p>He’d read and revisited these books over and over again in the last 5 years since he’d discovered the series. They were <em> so </em> beautifully written and <em> so fucking hot </em>. Quentin set them aside and shelved the rest of the books. Later he threw Sunderland’s books onto his nightstand for a good reread.</p><p>Showered, shaved, and fed that night, he waited on the couch for Julia to call. Right on the dot 8 p.m. for him, 5 p.m. for her out in California, the call came through.</p><p>Even through the somewhat grainy video on his screen he felt the warmth of talking to her--his best friend. With her low voice and constant cups of tea sitting on the little patio of the bungalow she was renting in L.A. she was just perfect.</p><p>She was <em> staring at him-- </em></p><p>“What’s going on with you, Q?”</p><p>Quentin shook his head, “Nothing--working. But not really. Just up to a normal, reasonable amount of avoiding writing.”</p><p>Julia squinted at him, and he just couldn’t take it. Seriously, Quentin would break under interrogation in about a second.</p><p>“Uh--I may have fucked Eliot?” he said. She didn’t need to know the <em> actual </em> details which had really just included Quentin begging to <em> be </em> fucked by Eliot pretty insistently that morning only to have Eliot slot himself between Quentin’s thighs and rock there until he came. No. She definitely didn’t need to know that. He’d had to put his hand over Quentin’s mouth because for whatever reason <em> that </em> really had set him off.</p><p>Julia’s eyebrows shot up, “Were you drunk?”</p><p>“No--Jules, I wasn’t. I haven’t done that since--<em> you know </em>, it’s not like that.”</p><p>She frowned incrementally at him. “So are you two dating?” and then Julia made a strange kind of scoffing sound, “No, that doesn’t sound like <em> Eliot.” </em></p><p>And Quentin was a little offended, by the implication that Eliot couldn’t be the kind of man who did date or would date according to Julia, who’d really only hung out with him a handful of times. She’d certainly gotten a rundown of his escapades from Quentin over the years, though.</p><p>“What if we were dating?” Quentin huffed, “We’re not. But it’s not out of the question.”</p><p>Julia sighed and ran a hand through her hair, “Look, Q. Eliot’s--<em> kind of a dick </em> and he can be really selfish and seems really complicated.”</p><p>Quentin could feel himself getting warm in agitation. He liked that Eliot was kind of a dick because Quentin could be a real asshole when his mind wanted to go there.</p><p>“I’m complicated.” Quentin said, “And you’ve kind of gotten a front row seat on the depression-coaster that is my life so are you saying that <em> I’m not the kind of person who dates? </em> Because El and I--we aren’t that different, not really.”</p><p>“No, no, no.” Julia said, shaking her head at him. On the screen there were little delays so the movement snapped into place a bit unnaturally. “<em> Q-- </em>i’m just saying that you deserve someone who can actually be there for you, who is stable--”</p><p><em> “Stable </em> so when I inevitably lose my shit again--”</p><p>“That is not what I said.”</p><p>“No--it’s fine. But just FYI you don’t know anything about him if you think he can’t--” <em> Do not tell her about this morning. Standing in the kitchen sleepy and loose-limbed fishing out his Adderall. Eliot handing him a glass of water with a silent little smirk, kissing Quentin on the side of the head as he passed. </em> “Just, we’re all a little older and a little fucking wiser now, alright? I have to go.”</p><p>He didn’t.</p><p>But still he ended the Skype call while Julia made an abrupt attempt to get through to him.</p><p>
  <em> “Quentin--” </em>
</p><p>He sat there on the couch, palms sweating for a long time.</p><p>She was just so <em> wrong </em> so misguided about Eliot. About <em> all of it. </em></p><p>Julia had been there for him--seen a lot of things that made Quentin feel small with shame. But she’d never judged him for his brain when it would trip him up. It was just so strange to him that Julia didn’t seem to <em> get </em> that yes, Eliot had his issues. But that didn’t make him unstable or incapable of taking care of someone.</p><p>In fact, now that Quentin thought about it--that just made Eliot all the <em> more </em> capable since he <em> knew </em> what it was like to go through pain and have limits on what he could get through in a day.</p><p>Quentin thought about that for a good long time, during his walk back to the Catwins, now that it was dark and quiet out. When he got to the abandoned lot where he fed them the cans of food he’d left that afternoon had been demolished.</p><p>He went through the familiar process of putting the paper plates down, spilling out the dry food, using the lid of the can of wet food to scoop it out onto the plate, stepping back and waiting for them to smell the food and come out.</p><p>Rupert was first--a real chunky thing. He was always quick on the draw when the food came out. He gave Quentin a side eye and began to chow down with abandon.</p><p>It took longer for Jane and Martin but they did eventually make their way out into the night air.</p><p>Martin didn’t look great. He usually got around perfectly fine on three legs, but tonight he was staggering and looked almost drunk. Even in the low light of the parking lot Quentin could tell his eyes were bleary, gross and goopy.</p><p>But the <em> real </em> testament to how terrible he must have felt was that he actually let Quentin walk right over and pet him while he half heartedly ate the food set out for him. He shook his head weakly side to side and pawed at his ears.</p><p>He called Kady.</p><p>She answered on the second ring, “What’s up?”</p><p>“Martin’s sick. Can you bring a carrier over? I’m gonna take him to the emergency vet tonight.” Quentin told her, plopping down on the ground next to them. Jane hissed at him but made no move to swipe with her claws.</p><p>“Fuck--yes. I’ll send Penny over, I’m out trying to trap a fucking kitten under a stupid fucking Prius.” Kady said. On the other end of the line there was the general sound of someone moving about. Knowing Kady, she was flat on the ground with a beach towel waiting to snatch the poor kitten to take it home.</p><p>“Thank you!”</p><p>She hung up on him and Quentin waited there, feeling like he didn’t really know what to do other than pet Martin and feel miserable when he threw up moments after eating his food.</p><p>“Oh buddy--” Quentin muttered, scratching him behind the ears.</p><p>“He looks like shit.” Penny said on approach. He kept his distance, knowing well enough that the feral cats would fucking bolt at the sight of anyone they weren’t familiar with. “Buy your own fucking carrier, Coldwater.”</p><p>Quentin resisted the urge to argue that they weren’t his fucking cats, so why would he need a carrier? But clearly he did, so he kept his mouth shut.</p><p>Penny, for all that he looked like the kind of guy who’d be caught dead before you saw him bottle feeding a little neonatal kitten (which Quentin <em> had </em> seen once) really knew his shit about cats. But that really came with the territory of dating Kady who led ‘Trap, Neuter, Release’ programs all over Brooklyn and was never without a foster cat or three in their apartment.</p><p>“Take off your stupid hoodie and put it in the carrier with him.” Penny told him from across the lot. Quentin did, lining the bottom of the carrier with his own clothing. “Okay--he might fight you on getting him in the carrier, grab him firmly by the back of the scruff and that should get him to relax a bit.”</p><p>Well it worked well enough on <em> Quentin. </em></p><p>Eventually, he was able to stuff Martin into the carrier and then accepted the beach towel that Penny handed him to cover the sides of the carrier from view. Martin yoweled miserably.</p><p>Jane and Rupert glared up at him with huge eyes and raised their hackles as he walked away with their brother.</p><p>Quentin could relate.</p><p>Together, he and Penny walked several blocks together in the direction of the 24-hour, fucking expensive emergency vet clinic before parting ways.</p><p>“Send me pages whenever, man.” Penny told him with a wave and a single pat on the shoulder. That was about as fond as he ever got. “And let Kady know about Martin when you get news or I’ll never hear the end of it--”</p><p>And thus began a long, and stressful night of waiting and testing. Having to help hold Martin down for his exam with the vet tech, his stomach clenching with every miserable sound that Martin made.</p><p>It was fucking terrible.</p><p>They wanted to keep him overnight--for fluids and for tests to come back but it seemed like he had an upper respiratory infection and potentially a bacterial ear infection.</p><p>Quentin paid the crazy vet bill without question--feeling a little weird that he’d gotten to the point where he could unblinkingly shell out this amount of money on a cat that wasn’t even his. He collected the empty carrier and headed home in the very early morning hours before even the garbage trucks began rolling.</p><p>When he got home, he managed to strip himself completely and throw himself into bed. He was asleep just as his head hit the pillow.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>Quentin spent the next couple days keyed up and anxious, retrieving Martin from the vet on Sunday afternoon. He needed a full course of antibiotics and to have his ears flushed out. The vet told him in no uncertain terms that he really couldn’t go back home until after his 10 days of medication and his ears cleaned up.</p><p>Which meant that Quentin had to call Kady who brought over a litter box and three huge bags of shit to keep Martin occupied.</p><p>They shoved his desk out of the room into the living room and lined a box in the corner with blankets so he had a place to hide away if he wanted to.</p><p>She helped him wrap Martin up in a towel to give him his meds and it felt a bit like he was trying to corral a wolverine than a cat. But eventually he was able to administer meds and feel like Martin wasn’t going to choke himself out in the struggle.</p><p>On Monday he called Heather bright and early and asked if they could teleconference for their appointment despite the fact that she was only two trains away, but she was a little cat crazy herself so she was fine with it.</p><p>They talked about Martin a lot and Heather reiterated that none of this was Quentin’s fault. Martin was a feral fucking cat. He just was. He was already more prone to illness just because he lived outside. Quentin still felt guilty.</p><p>He told her about his fight with Julia, still feeling rattled by the whole thing, by how defensive he’d gotten so quickly. </p><p>“Quentin, I think you need to consider that Julia doesn’t know Eliot as well as you do. But also, her judgments are colored by the fact that she <em> has </em> seen you at your most vulnerable and she wants to make sure you’re in the best hands.” Heather had said--</p><p>Which, yes. That did make sense.</p><p>So he called Julia later that day and apologized for hanging up on her. And Julia told him she’d been too critical from the beginning, and that she really just wanted him to be supported since she was so far away.</p><p>“Julia, he’s not like my <em> boyfriend </em> and it is complicated. But Eliot’s different now and I have nothing but evidence that says I can trust him with this--so just, do you want to hear about it or not?”</p><p>She did.</p><p>And so he told her about all of it (loosely) including the research and the basics of what the book was about. Learning that Eliot had always thought he was cute or whatever. How they were setting limits and negotiating.</p><p>
  <em> “Jesus, Quentin, I think that’s more communication than you’ve had in all of your relationships combined.” </em>
</p><p>Which, yes. Was definitely true.</p><p>That didn’t make it any less confusing when Quentin pondered over the fact that Eliot had told him that Quentin was <em> his </em>--not all the time, just when they were together.</p><p>He spent a lot of time trying to ignore his own thoughts, stretched out on the floor of his office with Sunderland’s book between meals. Not depressed or listless, just worried about Martin and wanting to turn his brain off for a while.</p><p>The books proved to be a <em> great </em> distraction. But also not.</p><p>Sunderland had written a truly epic and really fucking hot series about a fictional America in which the president and vice president (two dudes, which was kind of boring but he would allow it) were super ripped, hot, and in head-over-heels stupid love with each other. And <em> then </em> the series shifted into a triad when the president reconnected with an old flame--daughter of a politician who he’d deflowered years ago before war and politics turned him into a darker, brooding man. Quentin devoured the whole series in the span of a day and a half. So fucking jealous of Sunderland that she could weave this story about lust and kink and <em> tenderness </em> so well between three people.</p><p>The way they all belonged to each other in their own ways--made things work despite all odds. Well, it made Quentin’s hair feel like it was standing on end and compelled him to lock himself away in his bedroom once again, alone there wanting to be in that space. Wanting to be like the president’s wife, surrendering under the power of the two men she loved the most. And the character fucking <em> relished it </em> even in the dirtiest moments that made Quentin squirm when he read them. Even when she was pushed past what she’d thought was a breaking point in a scene--they were there to give her what she needed.</p><p><em> But then also there was the marriage part. </em> And elbowing each other out of the way in front of the bathroom mirror and the kind of boring domesticity that made up the fabric of their lives.</p><p>Quentin may have touched himself to all the hot hot smut but later, in the aftermath, all he could think about was hands smoothing over the collar of his shirt, fixing it before he went out the door. Maybe his pill sitting out on the kitchen counter with a little note and a glass of water.</p><p>Being someone’s for longer than the space of a night.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>Margo was insane.</p><p>A genius.</p><p>But also insane.</p><p>“Look--I have the fucking budget so rent a goddamn car and make for upstate or whatever. Don’t pout at me.”</p><p>But how could he <em> not? </em></p><p>“Margo, you can’t just rent out a fucking castle for--it’s not practical! Like at all!” Quentin argued, trying to keep his voice down in the glass office that Margo so proudly reigned from.</p><p>“Ugh, you have no imagination! It’s an immersive experience, asshole! We’re going to recreate the iconic location of your book for a whole weekend of press and events!” Margo waved a hand at him. She had her feet up on her desk despite the clinging material of her pencil skirt slowly bunching up her thighs. “It’s not a castle, it’s an <em> estate </em> . But it does have a turret. Just one. Used to belong to some megalomaniac turn of the century rich asshole and now people have their weddings there, it’s an event space. It’s <em> your </em> event space.”</p><p>Quentin bristled. “Margo, I really can’t stand these things. It’s like one thing to go to a party and then get dragged out to a bar after, and <em> another </em> to spend <em> three days </em> doing press and inviting fans out for advanced copies of the book. It’s way too much--it’s going to look like I’m bragging.”</p><p>“Quentin, it’s the <em> end </em> of your series! A series that they’re turning into a TV show. People want it to be over the top, okay? You should be bragging.”</p><p>Shoulders around his ears, “That’s not me, Margo. Just please--try to reign it in a little. I draw the fucking line at a throne, okay? No throne.”</p><p>Margo looked at him like he was a moron, “Q, I’m not recreating the fucking throne room without a fucking throne. And you <em> will </em> sit in it for one fucking photo, got it?”</p><p>He huffed, “Got it.” there was no escape.</p><p>“Good boy--” Margo smirked at him.</p><p>Quentin went flushed in an instant. “Hey--no. That’s not for you.”</p><p>She shrugged and looked not at all displeased with herself. “Aww little Q, don’t you get it? I can have anything I want.”</p><p>The door behind him swished open and a familiar voice hummed, “Sure can, Bambi. Who’s trying to deny you?”</p><p>If Quentin could have crouched into his chair lower, it would have swallowed him whole.</p><p>“Your boy here doesn’t appreciate all the hard work we’re putting into his epic fucking launch party.” Margo simpered as Eliot made his way into the room. He patted Quentin on the head with his free hand and then made his way back behind the desk, leaning on his cane today, but nonetheless he still bent down and kissed her on the lips in greeting.</p><p>“Wait--<em> We’re?!” </em>Quentin stammered.</p><p>Eliot nodded, rising to stand back up. He leaned against the sill of the huge windows that ran around the corner office, propping himself up there. He rested both hands on the handle of his cane and <em> wow okay </em> that was a real image. Margo with her legs up on the desk--Eliot behind her. <em> Jeez Louise. </em> “Of course, Bambi wants to make it special for you, now that she can do what she likes with the party. Made total sense to bring on another genius mind.”</p><p>“And just how long have you two been scheming about this?” Quentin asked, feeling twitchy at being in the same room as Eliot even though they’d done this so many times before the three of them all together. But that had been <em> before </em> . Before Eliot had seen him naked. <em> Before </em>Quentin had done and said so many things he’d never thought he’d do or say.</p><p>Just <em> before.  </em></p><p>“Three days.” Margo said with a self-satisfied smirk, “The other venue canceled on us and I had a flash of inspiration.”</p><p>“Right, right. Okay.” Quentin said. It was definitely <em> not </em> okay. “You’re gonna put this all together in six weeks? With everything else going on? With the show <em> and </em> your other clients?”</p><p>“What, like it’s hard?” Margo’s voice was lilting and playful. Over her shoulder Eliot smiled fondly.</p><p>The two of them really did cut a figure when they were together.</p><p>“Don’t worry your pretty little brain about it, Q.” Eliot said with a wave of his hand. “Margo and I have been known to throw together a legendary soiree in under three hours.”</p><p>Regardless, telling Quentin not to worry is futile. It’s just what he was programmed to do.</p><p>“Now, what are you wearing?” Margo asked.</p><p>There was only one answer.</p><p>“My suit?”</p><p>They both breathed in with the same horrified look on their faces and then at the same time:</p><p><em> “Those rags!” -- </em>Margo</p><p>“Like hell.” --Eliot</p><p>“What’s wrong with my suit?” Quentin asked, though he wasn’t really sure he wanted the answer.</p><p>Margo rocked her hand back and forth, “Basically everything, babe.”</p><p>Eliot nodded. “Color, cut, size. The whole deal.”</p><p>“It’s fine!”</p><p>“It’s huge on you--makes you look like you’re a kid in your dad’s clothing.” Margo spouted. “And it’s <em> brown!” </em></p><p>Quentin startled despite the whole, you know, dead dad thing having happened like 5 years ago now.</p><p>“What Bambi means--” Eliot said, tipping his head to the side with a somewhat softer expression on his face, “Is that it’s your big day--in a literary sense of the word. We can do better.”</p><p>“We can do a fuckton better.” Margo tacked on.</p><p>“Fine, whatever. I’ll go to Brooks Brothers and yuppie it up.” Quentin waved a hand at them, trying to get them off his back.</p><p>“I’ll give you a hand--” Eliot said. Quentin’s chest burst with warmth.</p><p>“We just want you to look your best, Q.” Margo soothed over. “It’s good for everyone; the publisher, the show, you. And at some point you’ll need to take a new author photo for the rerelease of the first books. Something that’s less New-Comer Literary Twink and more Best-Selling Twunk.”</p><p>Quentin frowned at her.</p><p>“I hate this. I hate all of this. I’m leaving.”</p><p>And because they’d discussed everything--Margo had told him the plan and not allowed him to change any of it--he began to grab his things and pack up his bag.</p><p>Eliot walked to the door in a few long strides, “Bambi I’ll meet you around the corner. Q, I’m gonna walk you out.”</p><p>Margo waved both of them out and then shouted at Todd on the intercom to bring in her jacket and her ‘Fuck Me Pumps’. Quentin shuddered. </p><p>“Margo and I are going for happy hour at the bar down the street--you should come.” Eliot said, casual. So stinking casual as he motioned for Quentin to board the elevator and then leaned against the wall, watching him as they descended.</p><p>Quentin tapped his foot. “One drink--and then I have to go. I have a cat thing.”</p><p>Eliot chuckled, “Cat thing?”</p><p>“I have a cat--it’s not mine but we’re kind of cohabiting at the moment and I need to be home soon to give him his medicine.”</p><p>“The cat who isn’t yours--”</p><p>Quentin stared down at his shoes, “Yeah I feed him every night and he hates me. But he’s sick so now he’s in my office for the next week and a half.”</p><p>“I think that means you just have a cat, Quentin.” Eliot said with that stupid smirk on his face.</p><p>Together they walked down the block to the bar in question. It was full of corporate dudebros blowing off steam at the end of the work day, there were blazers thrown over the back of every chair and ties loosened on every neck. Eliot guided them to a little out of the way circular booth in the back, near where the tables were for the restaurant portion. Quentin threw his bag down along with his rumpled coat. Eliot sprawled beside him, both of his legs as straight out before him as they could get, stretching.</p><p>“You okay?” Quentin asked, surreptitiously looking over the menu of happy hour cocktails that were still somehow overpriced--ah Manhattan.</p><p>“Just resting these weary old bones.” Eliot said breezily. Quentin looked at him pointedly. “Alright, i’m an old fucking man. I jacked up my hip. Sometimes it just--radiates like a bitch.” He waved a hand at Quentin’s concern, “I have an appointment tomorrow, steroid injection. I’m fine.”</p><p>“You should be at home! In your bed, Eliot.” Quentin insisted, putting down the menu.</p><p>“No, I should be here happy hour with you. Being happy. And not in my big cold bed at home--unless you want to come warm it up for me.” Eliot said, throwing an arm around him in that old familiar way of his.</p><p>They were interrupted by a waitress who’d come to take their order. She looked a bit harried, so when Eliot ordered two drinks he’d never heard of for Margo and himself, Quentin just shrugged and went, “I’ll have what he’s having.”</p><p>Eliot smiled down at him, “Quentin if you’d like to live out some <em> ‘When Harry Met Sally’ </em>fantasies, we can make that absolutely happen.”</p><p>“Don’t try to sex me out of this, Eliot. You should go home and rest.” Quentin was firm and he actually wagged a finger in Eliot’s face.</p><p>“I’m <em> fine.” </em>Eliot said, caught his finger easily. Let it go after a long moment. “I’ve dealt with worse--and been fine then too.”</p><p>Quentin huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.</p><p>Eliot nudged him with a shoulder and pointed over at a woman at a high top who’d just sat down and was waiting for someone, probably. She’d pulled out a dog-eared book and cracked it open.</p><p>“That’s your book, peach.” Eliot said, quietly. Just for the two of them.</p><p>It was. It really was. Book 4. She may be catching up on the series before the last book came out--jesus, Quentin hoped people liked it.</p><p>“You recognized my book?” Quentin turned back to Eliot, surprised.</p><p>“Bambi puts me on the press list for everything she works on. I get shit all the time. I kept yours--seemed rude not to even if I'm too pretty to read a book. Everything else I donate.” Eliot said. But <em> where? </em>Where did Eliot keep all these alleged books he owned?</p><p>“Oh.” Quentin said. He didn’t want to think about the fact that regardless of where Quentin was in the <em> real </em>world, a little bit of him was lingering around Eliot somewhere.</p><p>“You should go say ‘hi’.” Eliot said, nodding in the direction of the woman.</p><p>Quentin’s whole body curled in on itself at the very idea. “Yeah, no thanks.”</p><p>“Jesus, Q. If I were you i’d sign every one of my fucking books when I saw it in the wild. I’d be the bane of every library in existence.” Eliot said, lighting up when their drinks arrived.</p><p>Whatever it was--there was a hell of a lot of gin in it when Quentin took a sip. Still, it was good once he got over the feeling of being smacked in the face by pine needles.</p><p>“Awww how cute.” Margo said, stomping over in what were apparently her ‘Fuck Me Pumps’. “You two look like you’re on a date.”</p><p>
  <em> Leading the fucking witness, your honor. </em>
</p><p>Quentin locked up under Eliot’s arm.</p><p>“We make quite the fetching pair, do we not?” Eliot said, now somehow with even more the air of a regency dandy.</p><p>“You two make me want to barf.” Margo said, plonking down in the booth. “Thank god you’re finally fucking in some capacity.” She slid along the seat with ease and leaned herself up against Eliot. Like it was totally normal to be three people all in one big cuddle pile in a bar/restaurant at happy hour. And for Margo and Eliot, yes. It was normal. Quentin had spent <em> years </em>trying to decipher whether Margo were anything other than just friends--yes. In fact, it seemed like they were rather intimately acquainted.</p><p>Not that Quentin had pictured that. Too much. Or at all.</p><p>That was a total lie. But Quentin couldn’t quite get his brain around the logistics of it all, kind of like trying to understand how high and low pressure systems made hurricanes. There was logic and science involved, but really Quentin just knew that they leveled towns.</p><p>“Jealous.” Eliot hissed at Margo, bringing Quentin back to the present. Quentin took a big sip of his drink. Just the one and he’d have a good buzz going on the subway home.</p><p>“Me? Never.” Margo scoffed, raising her drink to toast to herself.</p><p>This was just too similar to all the other times they’d all gone out. Only <em> so </em> different. He couldn’t look at Eliot’s hands without knowing what they could do. Or his mouth without <em> hearing </em> what he’d said to Quentin in the privacy of his apartment. Or feel his body casually pressed against his side without remembering the heavy weight of it against him, all encompassing and protective.</p><p>If he lost hanging around with Margo and Eliot somehow, his New York friend circle went down to just Kady and Penny. Enough said.</p><p>So it was nice to just sit there and drink his drink while they held court in their own special way. With their shorthand and their quips. They were talking about the party that they were throwing--things about aerialists and horses. Quentin was just content to sit there and listen, while thrumming with energy.</p><p>It was like being back in high school sitting next to Julia on the school bus on field trips, feeling like the energy was building and that he’d break apart from the tension if he didn’t tell he loved her before they got to their destination--which he <em> never </em> did. Later he’d realized that he’d been confusing his love for her as a friend and a person who was there for him with romantic attraction. He hadn’t <em> really </em> wanted to be her boyfriend.</p><p>Quentin hadn’t understood that for it to work there had to be both.</p><p>Loving someone for what they did for you and how they made you feel. </p><p><em> And </em> being so attracted to them that you felt like every atom in your body was going to pop the moment you were separated.</p><p>
  <em> Jesus Christ. He was in love with Eliot. </em>
</p><p>The realization hit him like a real slap in the face. He nearly sloshed his drink onto the pair of them in the booth.</p><p>“Watch it, Coldwater!” Margo hissed.</p><p>“You okay, Q?”</p><p>“I’m fine!” Quentin exclaimed. He threw back the rest of his drink. “I just realized--I’m uh--late to wash out Martin’s ears. I’ll get you back for the drink--bye!”</p><p>He booked it out of the bar, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he fled. Fucking coat, left behind--fuck it. Total lost cause. A casualty.</p><p>Quentin swiped his metrocard. We was in love with Eliot.</p><p>Ate dinner standing at the kitchen counter. He was in love with Eliot.</p><p>Gave Martin his meds, He was in love with Eliot.</p><p>Took his own meds. He was in love with Eliot.</p><p>And finally threw himself into bed that night. He was in love with Eliot.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>The next day, he began to write.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>Fen called him on the third morning he’d been actually working. He heard it vibrating somewhere. Quentin had to search for his phone among the various debris littering his living room. Post-Its and papers and books and coffee cups everywhere.</p><p>“Boss--” Fen said, sounding a bit worried. “Hey, you had a call with Happily Ever After yesterday.”</p><p>Quentin squinted at the time on the microwave like that would solve anything. “No that’s on Thursday, Fen.”</p><p>She sighed. “Quentin, It’s Friday.” She said it gently, carefully.</p><p>Oh <em> fuck. </em>Oh shit. Oh no.</p><p>Quentin thrust a hand through his hair, realizing how limp it felt under his fingers. “I--I turned on that lockdown app on my computer. The productivity one--”</p><p>“Ah.” Fen said, “and your phone--”</p><p>“Died. I plugged it in this morning.” Quentin nodded, wandering his own apartment looking around like he didn’t recognize the place. He kind of didn’t. It looked like a bomb had gone off.</p><p>“It’s fine.” Fen said, comforting. “They were just worried about you is all. I was on the call too, so we hammered out the travel arrangements! Two nights in L.A. and then you fly home.”</p><p>Ah yes, now he remembered. Happily Ever After was the only all-romance book store in America. They’d been kind enough to ask him to come out for two days of signings and a reading. Plus he was going to see Julia while he was out there.</p><p>And Quentin had <em> blown it. </em></p><p>In fact--checking the time. <em> Fuck </em>. it was already 11 a.m. and he’d left his Adderall on the kitchen counter, meaning to take it and then he’d gotten distracted and back on the floor. No wonder he felt scattered and unfocused.</p><p>“Right, of course.” Quentin said, running water into a glass so he could take his pill. “Do you need anything else from me?”</p><p>Fen was quiet for a moment. “Are you okay, Quentin? You sound--<em> distracted. </em>”</p><p>Ah yes, distracted. The internationally recognized stand-in for ‘unhinged’. </p><p>“I’m fine!” Quentin said, trying for bright. Maybe a little too manic. “I am. I am totally fine. I’m writing, actually. You know how I get!”</p><p>“I do, yeah. That’s great!” Fen said softly. “Just, don’t forget, you have the writer’s meeting at noon.”</p><p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p><p>“Is it on Skype?”</p><p>Please god, let it not be a Skype call.</p><p>“No, just a phone call. Do you want me to sit in?” Fen asked in that sweet way of hers.</p><p>Quentin shook his head, realizing she couldn’t hear him. “No, it’s cool. I got this.”</p><p>He hung up the phone, took his pill and tore through the apartment for the next hour trying to get himself together.</p><p>Quentin rushed himself through the process of changing out of his pajamas, brushing his teeth, pulling back his tragic hair, checking on Martin--still alive. He was shoveling cold lasagna into his mouth since pills on an empty stomach weren’t great when his phone flashed at him from the counter.</p><p>It was just a notification that his regular cat food order was on its way. But there were also a bunch of other notifications from the last few days.</p><p>Several missed calls from Julia and Margo. Texts from both women as well as Kady and Eliot.</p><p>Kady just wanted to know how Martin was. He sent her a photo of him looking fat and miserable in his box in the corner.</p><p>Two notifications flashed up within moments of each other.</p><p>One from Margo:</p><p>
  <b>“You want the bookplates shipped to your house?”</b>
</p><p>And one from Eliot:</p><p>
  <b>“Hey, we gotta stop meeting like this but whatever. your place or mine tomorrow at 7?”</b>
</p><p>Checking the time, Quentin fired off quick responses.</p><p>One to Margo:</p><p>
  <b>“Yes, that’s fine. My place.”</b>
</p><p>And one to Eliot--that broke him a bit but you know, avoidance. It was a thing. Plus, he really couldn’t face Eliot right now, what with all the realizing he was in love with him.</p><p>
  <b>“Raincheck?”</b>
</p><p>Quentin got himself a cup of coffee and settled down in the last chaotic part of his apartment for the phone call with the writer, hoping against hope that his Adderall would kick in before the study-proven 3 hour mark.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>All he could really do was hope that he’d come off as a very intense creative type--which he was, only usually much quieter, when he got off the phone with the writer. She was very nice, and claimed to be a longtime fan of the series. They went over her basic plot for the season, what needed to be adapted for television and what needed to absolutely stay true to the book.</p><p>He may have gone on about Ciaran’s grandfather’s pocket watch and its symbolism for <em> far too long </em> but it really was important to the story.</p><p>When he hung up the phone he felt exhausted and somewhat giddy at the prospect of seeing a world he’d only ever dreamed up in his own head come to life. It was wild.</p><p>Quentin took a nap on the couch--not usually his style but today wasn’t even halfway over and it had been a trial.</p><p>He awoke a long time later, starving for dinner and disoriented. It was close to medication time for both him and Martin. The poor boy was really taking it like a champ these days, he just kind of resigned himself to Quentin cleaning out his disgusting little ears and forcing him to eat his daily antibiotic.</p><p>His fridge was pretty much barren--coming to the end of his weekly prepared stuff. There was dinner for today and breakfast for tomorrow, then he’d have to go pick up next week’s order on Saturday afternoon. Still, he ate even more lasagne. This time, Quentin even heated it up and put it on a plate and everything. Little victories.</p><p>By the time that he’d fed himself, vegged out on the couch for a while and then gone out to feed the remaining Catwins, and came home--he was exhausted. Quentin had told Rupert and Jane about how Martin was doing better for all that they clearly didn’t give any fucks or understand him.</p><p>Throughout the next day he remained pretty much in the same position apart from trips to the bathroom and for coffee from the kitchen. He made a point to take his meds in the morning and then sprawled out on the floor with his computer and his notecards, furiously scribbling.</p><p>That was the thing about Quentin, he could get <em> stuck </em> on things, fixated. In college there’d been times that he’d pulled unintentional all-nighters without even having classwork to finish, he’d just go down a knowledge K-hole and emerge in the morning, confused and bleary-eyed at the sun. It felt a bit better to do this sort of thing with writing because it was his <em> job </em> but still, he had to keep up with his schedule lest he completely run himself into the ground.</p><p>But today was Saturday and he had no obligations really except to pick up his meals for the week and to take care of the cats who hated him. So he let himself go a little reclusive for the day.</p><p>His mind was a faucet on full blast with ideas and characters, his hands trying to cup whatever water he could and get it down on paper before they vanished down the drain.</p><p>Hours went by until he was sore from lying in the ground so he pulled a blanket off the couch and laid on that. This really <em> was </em> the best position, with everything he needed spread out on the floor. </p><p>At some point he got up because his phone was blaring again to take his Abilify.</p><p>Tomorrow was <em> Sunday </em>, he could pull himself back out and clear things up by then--</p><p>
  <em> BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! </em>
</p><p>Oh shit, the food! He must have forgotten at some point to go over. No bother, sometimes they ran it over to him if it was a slow night.</p><p>Quentin hit the intercom, “Sorry! Come on up!” and took the opportunity off the floor to stretch his arms above his head, scratching his stomach absently when it rumbled. <em> Fuck, he was hungry. </em></p><p>There was a knock at the door, Quentin threw it open expecting Sue, looking annoyed at him in her bike helmet with a huge tote of food.</p><p>
  <em> Instead. </em>
</p><p>“Hell of a look for you, peach.” Eliot said, staring down at him. Probably cataloging everything from his flannel pajama pants to his ripped Nerf Herder t-shirt and unwashed hair.</p><p>He nearly slammed the door in Eliot’s face.</p><p>Where did he get the right to show up at Quentin’s home looking just dashing in a knee-length camel colored wool coat with a long, soft looking burgundy scarf around his neck? <em> And an overnight bag. </em>He had a classy as fuck leather overnight bag in his hand.</p><p>Quentin stammered, pulled the door more closed around him, trying to hide the disaster zone of his apartment. “Eliot, what are you doing here?”</p><p>“Look, I know i’m a little late, but hauling this much beauty around does that to a man.” Eliot smiled, but it somehow didn’t reach his eyes. He was still looking at Quentin curiously.</p><p>“You’re in Brooklyn.” It seemed like the <em> only </em> thought he could verbalize.</p><p>“Yes, Quentin.” Eliot was using his height to peek over Quentin’s head into the apartment. “Not like it’s some great continental divide between us. There’s a bridge.”</p><p>Quentin huffed a little hysterical laugh. Eliot <em> could not </em> be here. Not now. Not when Quentin was a big old mess--and not a hot sexy one begging to suck Eliot’s dick. Just the kind who’d left a trail of mugs and Tupperware on every known surface of his home.</p><p>“Are you going to invite me in?” Eliot asked, pointedly.</p><p>“Please, come in. Won’t you?” Quentin said with not a single drop of welcome. Still, he stepped aside and let Eliot in, shutting the door behind him. Eliot must have been seeing what Quentin now saw--now that he was out of the work headspace. Mess everywhere. Papers and mugs strewn about. Dishes piled in the sink. Rings on the coffee table from all the times he forgot to use a coaster.</p><p>Embarrassment flooded through him.</p><p>“I think there was some kind of--” Quentin began, “No. There was a mixup. I’m sorry--Eliot.”</p><p>The texts. The fucking texts. Quentin picked up his stupid phone and there it was, a text from him to Eliot telling him at Quentin’s place was fine for tonight. <em> Shit. Shit. Shit. </em>Which means Margo got the one about a rain check.</p><p>“Are you okay, Quentin?” Eliot asked mildly, still holding onto his bag and wearing his coat. Quentin should take those, that what hosts did, right?</p><p>“I was working.” Quentin pointed to the chaos on the floor.</p><p>“Okay.” Eliot said, calmly. He pulled off his coat and hung it on a hook by the door, set down his bag and clapped his hands together. Mary Fucking Poppins. “So here’s what’s going to happen.” Quentin gulped. “You’re gonna go take a shower. I’m going to order Thai food. We’re going to sort all of this mess out together. We’re gonna get you all straightened out. And then later, we’re going to talk about it.”</p><p>There was no question. There were just orders. It bristled at the part of Quentin that was squirming under this scrutiny.</p><p>“Eliot. That really isn’t necessary.” Quentin said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. “Gimme like 10 minutes, I’ll pick all this up.”</p><p>Eliot approached him and put his hands on Quentin’s shoulders, holding him at arm’s length. “No.”</p><p>“N-no?” Quentin stammered. Eliot shook his head at him. “Look, El. I’m sorry that I fucked up your plans for tonight or whatever. I just got busy.”</p><p>Eliot frowned, “Busy? This looks like more than <em>busy.</em> <em>Are you okay?”</em></p><p>Decoded: Are you on your meds? Have you been sleeping? Are you depressed? Are you manic?</p><p>Quentin huffed and broke free from Eliot’s hands, walking to the living area where his nest of blankets and papers was sprawled across the ground. Hastily, he bent down and began scooping up his papers into a rough pile, trying to get them off the floor without any regard for the order he’d put them in throughout the day.</p><p>“Quentin, stop.” Eliot’s voice was closer now, night behind him. Quentin’s shoulders drew up towards his ears with tension. “Go take a shower. I’ll leave you something to wear on the bed--”</p><p>“You know Eliot,” Quentin broke in, turning around on the floor to look up at him. So polished and pressed and perfect. Quentin, hopelessly in love with him but somehow also hating him in this moment. Because this was supposed to be casual for both of them and now Eliot was going to waste his Saturday night trying to-- “You can’t fuck the mental illness out of me. Okay?”</p><p>Eliot blinked at him for a few long seconds of shock, cleared his throat and stood firm. “No. I don’t imagine I could. Nor would I want to. Go get in the shower. Meet me out here when you’re ready to stop being a brat.” </p><p>Quentin flushed, this time with cold abject shame. His hands flexed around the papers he was holding, creasing them.</p><p>“Eliot--seriously. You should just leave. This is a really bad time.” Quentin rushed through the sentence.</p><p>“I’m not leaving, Quentin. I planned a nice, long evening with you, and I intend to have it. Some of those plans have clearly changed. It’s up to you if you’re going to have one as well. A nice long evening.” Eliot’s voice was measured. Not angry. Or disappointed. But firm. “Can you be good for me?”</p><p>Quentin put the papers down hastily. He didn’t want to be down on the floor right now, feeling small and ineffectual. Standing wasn’t much better, considering their height difference.</p><p>“I’m a grown man--you know?” Quentin said. Maybe trying to get a rise out of Eliot. Maybe that would make him feel better. If Eliot were off balance too. “My whole world doesn’t hinge on whether or not I’m a <em> good boy </em>--or whatever for you.”</p><p>
  <em> What a fucking liar. </em>
</p><p>“Quentin. Just trust me--as your friend. Right now you need to cool the fuck off before you say something you’re going to regret later.” Eliot said.</p><p>“Why? Are you going to spank me for it?”</p><p>“No--because you’ll slip away.” Eliot was looking at him with pity. “And I’m a masochistic asshole. I’d forgive you in a heartbeat and come back for more every time for more if you were terrible to me. But you’re too good. You’d apologize and then you’d just <em> drift </em>away from Margo and I.”</p><p>A big hot roll of panic went through him, settling jittery in his chest, making him queasy with it. Fuck. <em> Fuck. </em> That what--just <em> bullseye. </em></p><p>Eliot stepped forward, carefully skirting the papers on the floor in his shiny--huge--leather shoes and cupped a hand around Quentin’s cheek. “Go take your shower, Quentin.”</p><p>This was one opportunity in which Quentin was <em> allowed </em> to run. And so he did. He shut himself in his bathroom and finally got a look at himself in the mirror over the sink. He really did look like shit, hair half escaping a mangled old hair tie, the skin under his eyes drawn tight and bruise blue from too much coffee and not enough sleep. He hadn’t shaved in <em> days.  </em></p><p>It wasn’t depression. Quentin knew that. If he was depressed, he wouldn’t have had the energy to <em> care </em> what Eliot thought of him right now. He wouldn’t have been able to get a single word down on paper. No. This was something else. Some kind of playdate between his anxiety and ADHD that drew him in and made him too productive--yet also too unreliable for his own good. He still felt it, his thoughts jittery and pinging around in his skull like a pinball machine.</p><p>Regardless, he started the shower and jumped in before the water had truly finished heating up, unable to wait patiently. He focused on the task at hand, lathering, scrubbing, shampooing, untangling, conditioning, rinsing and finally he just stood there under the spray for lack of anything else to do. Without a clue as to what was going to happen tonight, he took care to make sure he was as clean as he could be for Eliot, for his own peace of mind.</p><p>He stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, wiped the fog from the mirror enough to get a good look at himself. A damper, pinker version of the same. Still, he shaved quickly, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair back into some semblance of order.</p><p>When he opened the door to the bathroom, a small cloud of steam escaped into the living room. The air was pleasantly warm against his skin. Eliot must have turned the heat up while Quentin was in the shower. Eliot was nowhere to be found. But the dishwasher was open and the top shelf was loaded up with many of the mugs and plates that had littered the apartment. </p><p>The doors to both the bedroom and the office were open, Eliot appeared in the doorway of the office, “This cat is so fucking tragic, Q. And he smells like cheese.” he said. And in Eliot’s arms, Martin meowed, annoyed. He was there, in Eliot’s arms, all 12 pounds of him, getting ginger hair all over Eliot’s paisley button-down. “Hush.” Eliot told Martin, scratching him under the chin.</p><p>That wasn’t exactly <em> possible. </em> It wasn’t possible that Eliot could do that, pick up Martin and hold him like a baby when Martin was a feral cat who had fought Quentin tooth and nail even back when he’s been a kitten. But <em> here </em> he was, still looking kind of miserable in Eliot’s arms, but <em> purring </em> as clear as day.</p><p>“Yeah--that’s the ear infection. It smells.” Quentin said dumbly.</p><p>In modern parlance, this was as close to the scene in The Avengers movie where Vision casually picked up Thor’s hammer and handed it to him, proving his worthiness to the group without even knowing the significance of his actions.</p><p><em> But </em> Quentin was a sentimental motherfucker and this was all Fillory. This was the blade that only drew the blood of a king if they were worthy. This was the trial and the rainbow bridge stretching out across a vast ravine. Eliot was <em> High King. </em>He’d been chosen.</p><p>And Quentin--Quentin needed to get out of there before he did something fucking tragic like drop to his knees and profess his love and fealty to Eliot. So he scampered to his room while Eliot remarked, “Has he <em> always </em> had three legs or is this a new condition?”</p><p>Quentin ignored him in favor of shutting himself in his bedroom and throwing his body back against the bedroom door, hyperventilating.</p><p>It seemed as though Eliot had done a bit of work in here as well. The bed wasn’t neatly made with hospital corners but he’d pulled the sheets and duvet up, fluffed all the pillows and stacked them neatly at the headboard.</p><p>There was a single pair of black boxer-briefs on the bed. <em> Fuck. </em></p><p>Part of Quentin was just so keyed up that he wanted to say <em> fuck it </em> and ignore them-- go back out there and press Eliot back against the closest wall and just <em> see if it worked. </em>If kissing him worked when it wasn’t not part of submitting to him or whatever. He wanted to know what it would have been like--to simply let Eliot suck him off in the bathroom during his first party. He’d made things needlessly complicated what with all these rules they’d given each other--</p><p><em> But </em> then said rules give Quentin a baseline for his behavior and so long as he doesn’t stray beyond them too much-- <em> what is he risking really? Another spanking-- </em>then he’d be free to react however he wanted with Eliot helming the ship.</p><p>If he put them on he was agreeing to whatever Eliot wanted for tonight. And yes, Quentin still felt frustrated and somewhat annoyed that Eliot had interrupted his first <em> real </em> writing sprint in months--probably <em> actually </em> almost a year-- <em> but </em> this was also drumming up those antsy, fluttery feelings of anticipation inside of him. Tender yearning for whatever Eliot wanted to give him--because he’d take <em> anything </em> at this point.</p><p>He put on the underwear.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you all so much for the response to the last chapter--I keep saying to myself 'this is the dirtiest thing I've ever written' while I'm working on this story--but for reals. The next chapter *is* the dirtiest thing I've ever written. I began this story while under the Covid lockdown where I live and honestly, I think working on it and all your kind feedback has kept me sane. So thank you so much for that.</p><p>I'll post part two in probably a few days! I love your comments! </p><p>OH! and the series that inspired Sunderland's books is the 'New Camelot' series by Sierra Simone. ITS SUPER HOT. More about her, later.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Martin Catwin Crowns a King (Part 2)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>THE TAGS HAVE BEEN UPDATED. Will I ever be able to write a scene under 7K? PROBABLY NOT.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eliot had been serious. He and Quentin worked together to pick up all of the debris around the apartment. Quentin, feeling weirdly tingly on the floor in his underwear, organizing all of his papers and notes, Eliot had told him to put them back into order. And so he did. Diligently checking that his notecards were all there in their right place, marking out the chapter beats of the story that was finally taking shape in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was surprised to find himself calming back down somewhat--recentering after basically half a week of devoting all of his time to writing. All of it from a few calm, directing sentences from Eliot who was now rinsing off dishes, starting the washer in the kitchen. He opened and closed the fridge, even took the garbage out while Quentin sat there on the floor with his knees under him basically naked in the open air of his living room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually Quentin organized everything into a neat pile which he moved to his desk along with his laptop and notebooks, stacking them all together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to find Eliot watching him, leaning against the sink with a warm look in his eyes. Once again, fully clothed in counterpoint to Quentin’s near nakedness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wordlessly, Eliot held his arms out and the implication was clear. He was a gold-medal hugger, though it had only been in recent weeks that Quentin had realised that Eliot was the perfect height to rest his head atop Quentins and the pressure there, coupled with his strong arms around Quentin’s torso radiated through his entire body until he felt warm and loose all over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t actually want you to leave.” Quentin muttered into Eliot’s shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> going anywhere.” Eliot’s voice reverberated through his chest under Quentin’s ear, blending with all the secret sounds his body made thrumming along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pumping blood. Breathing air. Nerves signaling. Hormones releasing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just. Quentin felt very grateful to all of these systems working in tandem to keep Eliot here with their little miracles. He closed his eyes and recalled Margo’s words--that she’d worked so fucking hard to keep Eliot here--that he’d get to see forty. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What the fuck? </span>
  </em>
  <span>What would that even look like? Not knowing what it was like to have Eliot look over at him with that bemused expression on his face, ruffle his hair, call Quentin--</span>
  <em>
    <span>what he called him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There was like no reality where he wouldn’t want this now that he knew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stood there for a while, until they jolted apart when the buzzer rang for their food and Eliot went down to go get it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fill two glasses of water and bring them to the coffee table, then wait on the couch.” Eliot told him, leaving with a little squeeze of Quentin’s wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin went. He waited.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot returned moments later with a big, steaming bag of food. He left it on the coffee table, motioning for Quentin not to get up. So there was nothing to do but just watch Eliot. With his long but somewhat uneven stride across Quentin’s apartment on bare feet--his shoes were somewhere and the practiced ease with which he went through Quentin’s cupboards for what he wanted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you feeling better now?” Quentin called over to the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--Much. Not crazy about needles, but it helps.” Eliot pulled down what he wanted from the cupboards. “Thanks for asking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually he joined Quentin on the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to try something new tonight, peach. I’m not going to tell you exactly what's going to happen.” Eliot said casually. Quentin perked up--that pet name. It really only came up when orgasms were in the vicinity. Around the times that Eliot was just going to ruin him. “Do you remember your rules?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot unpacked the food on the table as Quentin watched, spooning out fragrant Thai basil fried rice, chicken satay, and fresh looking spring rolls wrapped in translucent rice paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was only one plate. One fork.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s stomach twisted in knots--not just from the hunger of skipping lunch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot looked up at him pointedly. Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right--the rules. I answer questions when you ask them. I tell you what I want. I use my safeword if I don’t feel--if I need it. And I tell you the truth.” Quentin recalled. Eliot nodded and that was all it took for Quentin to flush with pride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your safeword?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Giraffe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you take your meds today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very good.” Eliot said. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Quentin’s lips. Just a chaste one and then he was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Eliot leaned over on the couch, reaching for something on the floor--his overnight bag. He pulled out a set of black leather cuffs. About two inches wide with a sturdy looking clip between them so they could be separated. Quentin’s mouth went dry. His dick pulsed just at the sight of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot had those with him on the </span>
  </em>
  <span>subway.</span>
  <em>
    <span> As in both of the trains it took to get from Noho to Brooklyn. Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Turn around, peach.” Eliot said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there was really no arguing with that. Not as Quentin pivoted around, showing Eliot his back. Or when Eliot drew Quentin’s wrists behind him and secured them there with practiced efficiency, sliding a finger under each cuff to check it’s give. He kissed the back of Quentin’s neck just once--close mouthed and reverent. Quentin shuddered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot turned him back around, guiding Quentin with soft touches to his shoulders until they were facing each other once again. The link between the cuffs made a rattle as Quentin tested the give of the bonds on him, pulling against their resistance, the tension of it in his forearms and biceps--the sudden ballooning awareness that he’d been caught, hobbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re okay.” Eliot assured him. “I’ve got you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it should have been panic rising in Quentin but it </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He could </span>
  <em>
    <span>struggle</span>
  </em>
  <span> and whine and pull at the cuffs but nothing came of it. Instead he felt just so desperate to touch Eliot now that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Color?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like that Quentin focused on anything other than what was happening in his body and Eliot before him. His thoughts, jumbled and skittish, bounced around like they too were testing the bars of some cage surrounding them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Green--El. I’m fine.” Quentin managed. “Just--uh, it feels like my hard-on is kind of linked to the inability to which I can’t move my arms.” He pulled again at his bonds and felt it zip right through him straight to his dick now perking up between his legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot held his face in one of those massive hands of his, staring him down. Amused. He was always amused when they started this. Good that Quentin could offer some kind of entertainment while he discovered a new kink that punched a fucking hole through his brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin needed to call up that guy from college who’d had those fuzzy handcuffs and apologize for laughing in his face. He’d been on to something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re lovely.” Eliot said. “We’re gonna have some dinner and then i’ll play with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded so hard his teeth chattered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes--dinner. Please.” Quentin begged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot picked up a throw pillow (Julia’s purchase) from the couch and dropped it to the floor at his feet. Quentin’s stomach dropped along with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Surely he didn’t mean--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That was--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin stared down at the pillow. Eliot stared down at Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually Eliot spoke. “Go on. Down on your knees for me, peach.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin vaguely remembered Eliot checking off this exact kind of thing on his list and it matched Quentin’s own checkmark (for all that Quentin had no real </span>
  <em>
    <span>idea </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he might like kneeling at someone’s feet, but the optics were interesting and this was about experimenting). This should be a no-brainer. Just kneel on down there on the floor--he had a pillow and everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he couldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>move</span>
  </em>
  <span> for some reason. All of his muscles locked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot rubbed his arm, tense where Quentin was still absently pulling against the cuffs on his wrists. “How do you feel?” he asked him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It--uh. It feels weird doing this if I’m not gonna just blow you. Feels--” Quentin screwed his mouth up, searching for a word, “Uh--it feels like I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>exposed</span>
  </em>
  <span> or I guess subservient. Which, in a manner of speaking </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> what I asked for but um, right now just seems kind of overwhelming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quentin.” Eliot rubbed up and down his arms, generating nice friction that warmed his skin. “That can be okay. You can feel whatever you want to feel--but unless you’re gonna tell me your safeword or call ‘yellow’, you need to listen to me and trust me here. Do you trust me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to take care of you now, Quentin. Get down on the floor for me. Kneel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an ungainly thing, moving off the couch without the use of his hands at all. Eliot helped him, guiding him down with a hand on his waist and another gripping his arm. Quentin plonked down onto the pillow at Eliot’s side, right next to his knee. Suddenly aware of how much taller Eliot was in this position, looking up at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Comfy?” Eliot asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah I guess.” Quentin shrugged, sitting back so his butt rested near his ankles, and his feet were a little wobbly under his weight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me know if you start to get too uncomfortable. I’m not the kind of dom who's gonna put you in a stress position for hours--I’m not gonna get off on both of both of us feeling like we were hit by a truck tomorrow.” Eliot picked up the plate from the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suffice to say that Quentin Coldwater would never be able to order from Thaiphoon ever again without blushing like an idiot. Not for a million dollars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next half hour in which Eliot meticulously and fondly hand-fed Quentin bite after bite of juicy morsels of lightly spiced chicken and cool, crunchy pieces of spring roll from his fingertips would be burned into his brain forever. Eating fried rice from the fork honestly made him feel a bit like a toddler again, trying to figure out the spacial awareness as not to poke himself in the face with the tines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was maybe the most indulgent thing that Quentin had ever experienced, resting there, looking up at Eliot as he took his time selecting the morsels he’d bring down to Quentin’s lips or feed himself. With every bite Quentin felt warm and giddy, having to use his tongue and lips to maneuver the food into his mouth. Eliot’s hand would linger and Quentin couldn’t help himself, laving the tips of Eliot’s fingers clean with his tongue--feeling hypersensitive like he could identify the exact specifications of Eliot’s fingerprints.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moaned lowly--not just at how tasty the food was. Eliot, who had been quiet through the entire dinner so far, smiled down at him. Quentin felt an explosion of squishy tenderness in his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feeling good?” Eliot asked him. His hand was still there, thumb petting over Quentin’s bottom lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin cleared his throat, nodding-- “Water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot nodded and steadied him with a hand on the back of his neck, the other tilting the glass slightly so he didn’t end up sloshing it all down his chest. Quentin took a few sips, couldn’t help but feel a dopey smile crawl across his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This. Being down here on his knees for Eliot was a whole new headspace. As a kid he’d always hidden away in small spaces--under tables or in wardrobes. He liked the confines of those places, how they made him feel secure. This was different but evoked similar feelings. Eliot’s legs were right there, his knee would make a great place to hide his face in, his thigh an excellent pillow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s arms felt heavy and useless behind his back. He was off balance somewhat, had to keep a shoulder against the couch so that he wouldn’t end up falling over into the coffee table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot studied him. Quentin became incredibly aware of his hair probably drying fluffy and his bare skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they’d demolished the plate of food along with several more of the spring rolls, Eliot turned to him and smiled. “You’re doing so well for me. Can you be good for me a while longer, Q?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry about earlier.” Quentin had to get it out. “I can be--um. I was--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot shushed him. “Q, that’s not what I asked you. Can you be good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded. “Yes. Yeah--of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot ran a hand through Quentin’s still damp hair, smoothing it away from his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love hearing that voice of your’s, Q. For right now though I want you to be quiet for me unless I ask you a question or if you need to signal me. Can you do that?” Eliot asked. He kept running his thumb over the shell of Quentin’s ear over and over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>try. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Wanted to see if he could be good for Eliot--but he still felt kind of jumbled from earlier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Eliot.” Quentin pressed his forehead to Eliot’s knee, pretty much the only contact he could initiate unless he scooted his body forward on the pillow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very good, peach.” Eliot’s praise just made him feel goopy and melty on the inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot leaned down and kissed him right between his eyebrows. Quentin sighed at the contact, wanting to strain forward and up up up to follow him--so he did. Up on his knees fully, he was closer to Eliot this way, he could have flopped his torso forward and maybe landed his face right in Eliot’s lap if he stretched enough. Needy. Seeking him out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But if he couldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>voice</span>
  </em>
  <span> his need, then he’d have to make it known somehow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot greeted him, reaching to hold Quentin’s face in his hand gently. “I’ll give you what you need--okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, his movement somewhat halted by Eliot’s grip on his chin. It sent a little thrill through him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot pressed his shoulders back down gently until he was resting back with his butt on his ankles, low down to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re gonna stay just like this for a while.” Eliot told him, pressing Quentin’s head to rest there against his knee so all he could really see was the fabric of Eliot’s pinstripe trousers and the floor. “Good boy. Stay there for me.” Eliot patted him on the head--which felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>a touch</span>
  </em>
  <span> condescending. But he didn’t loath it by any means. Eliot touching him </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot touching him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this was it? Was Eliot gonna get him all riled up with just his voice? Or jerk off while all Quentin could do was sit there and listen?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were a small series of movements, Eliot reaching for something from his bag. Then something landed in Eliot’s lap and Quentin heard the gentle tapping of something on glass a few times. Quentin furrowed his eyebrows and concentrated on the tapping, how he could feel it minutely where his forehead was pressed to Eliot’s knee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then faint music crawled through the apartment--the low strains of something classical and somewhat familiar, then a voice. Feminine and older, British.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Brakebills publishing proudly presents, ‘Time, Consuming’--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin jolted, looking up at Eliot in dawning horror. Eliot, stylus in hand with his tablet balanced on his lap glanced up at him--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Motherfucker looked </span>
  <em>
    <span>amused. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Pleased as punch. What an </span>
  <em>
    <span>asshole-- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Book One of the Clockwork Chronicles written and narrated by Quentin Coldwater.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliot!” Quentin exclaimed, pulling his stupid shoulder against the cuffs behind his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Quentin.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot parroted back in the same serious tone, pausing the recording on his iPad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“El, what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>are you doing?” Quentin tried to kneel back farther, make some kind of move to stand but almost brained himself on the coffee table in the process.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m doing research. For the party.” Eliot said. He reached out a hand and easily steadied Quentin so he didn’t actually bruise himself. “Imagine how titillated I was when I learned my own little peach narrated his books.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah yes, only the first three--then he’d begged out of the recording studio and left it to a voice actor who Quentin had seen on a web series where the actor played Dungeons and Dragons. He did really excellent voices and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> was an alarmingly hot presence in Quentin’s life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin huffed at him. “This isn’t--this isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>funny. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This is like the most mortifying thing I could ever imagine. I’m not gonna kneel here at your feet while you make me </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen to myself</span>
  </em>
  <span> and my own fucking book.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s eyebrows rose incrementally during his outburst. “Tell me why--why is it so bad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not gonna get all hot and heavy down here listening to myself read my own words!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot shook his head, “Who said I wanted you to get hot and heavy down there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin opened and closed his mouth several times over and over again. Orgasms had kind of been on the table </span>
  <em>
    <span>every time</span>
  </em>
  <span> they did this. “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>embarrassing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? I love showing my shit off.” Eliot shrugged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re you! You make beautiful things--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So do you, Quentin. Why can’t we just spend a lovely Saturday evening here enjoying them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah--well writers aren’t super notorious for </span>
  <em>
    <span>loving</span>
  </em>
  <span> hearing their work. I certainly don’t. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Especially </span>
  </em>
  <span>something I wrote like 10 years ago in my dorm room! It’s super fucking weird.” Quentin argued, feeling flushed and even more exposed than he had been before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you safewording?” Eliot asked him. Point blank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well shit. Was he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did he feel like he was in danger doing this? Like he couldn’t handle it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be really fucking embarrassing--like having to watch all his old school plays back to back, only in his underwear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But so had jerking off for Eliot. And begging to suck his dick. And any number of moments that he looked back on and thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>who is that guy wearing my face?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin said--watery to his own ears. If he could go just a </span>
  <em>
    <span>week</span>
  </em>
  <span> without crying--that would be wonderful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then be a good boy and put your head back down for me. I’m working on something.” Eliot said, thumbing the corner of his eye and then physically placing Quentin back in the position he’d been in. “I’ll pet your hair--come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He started up the recording on his iPad again and Quentin’s own voice filled the room along with the faint tapping every now and again of Eliot’s stylus.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Chapter One. One bright spring morning, Ciaran awoke to find himself cold and alone in the childhood bedroom he hadn’t seen in nearly fifty years.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin winced at his own voice, pressed his ear as hard as he could to the couch to at least block out half the sound of himself. Eliot made a soft sound and dropped a hand to his head, petting his hair absently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin huffed. Eliot tutted at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sighed and squirmed. Eliot petted him and tapped away on his iPad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really was embarrassed by it--hearing his own voice pick out the cadence of his writing style. Like a dancer moving through practiced through steps. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>abused </span>
  <em>
    <span>italics.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Half remembering his own turn of phrase. Surprising himself by the way a paragraph flowed thinking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>alright Coldwater.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But in another way--since it was his own voice and a story so familiar he could have tried his hand at a rewrite at any time and landed pretty close to the original--Quentin drifted. And his voice washed in and out while he closed his eyes and breathed in the fresh rain and tobacco smell of Eliot’s trousers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like this, just resting there without being able to move his arms and shift a bit on his knees, he zoned out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For long enough that at some point Eliot leaned over to bring the glass of water to Quentin’s lips and when he cracked his eyes open the room seemed much brighter. In the narrative, he vaguely heard the broad strokes of a main character coming to terms with a life lived and somehow reset as if by the winding of a clock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot spoke to him quiet and sweet. Quentin couldn’t really hone in on the words, but the tone was nice. So he just smiled and nodded. Eliot huffed a little laugh and kissed him on the forehead, pressed him back down to the place he’d been. He kept on stroking his hair over and over, back behind his ear sometimes, lightly scratching at Quentin’s scalp resulting in a buzzing sensation that trickled down his spine to the tips of his toes. His shoulders ached somewhat, but it was a pleasant kind of uncomfortable. If that made sense? It did to Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually Eliot shifted and it grew quiet again. Quentin leaned heavily into Eliot’s knee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, both of Eliot’s hands were cupping his face and bringing up to kneel higher. And he was just so nice and </span>
  <em>
    <span>there.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And tall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Quentin told him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I?” Eliot raised an eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had such nice eyes--brown but then also green with little flecks of gold in them, but you have to get really close to see those. Quentin’s eyes were just brown. He and Julia used to pretend they were brother and sister. Most of this hinged on their brown eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Quentin leaned toward him, closer. Eliot steadied him with firm hands and a kind smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot’s smile.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re cute.” Eliot told him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I?” Quentin said, then remember his rules, “Rules. I mean. Not a question--um.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll allow it, because you’re so stupid cute.” Eliot stroked his thumbs over Quentin’s cheeks, pressed the tips of his fingers into the hollows of his dimples when Quentin smiled--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been doing that a lot lately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been so good for me, peach. We got you nice and grounded. Do you feel okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was good--but.” Quentin could remember arguing and then Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>asking. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin agreeing. And then, now--this. Why hadn’t he wanted to get down on the floor?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No buts.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Except this one,” Eliot said, leaning down with his stupid long arms, goosing Quentin with a quick squeeze. “Now answer please, do you feel okay? Do you want to keep going, sweetheart?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt like he was in that hazy place between sleep and waking, like he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> it was nearly time to get up, but he could still hold control over his dreams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or put more simply--”Yeah. Yes. Please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With just no idea what he was asking for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, baby.” Eliot seemed to know though, because he was scooping Quentin up up up off the ground off his knees that kind of ached and the couch was cool under the bare skin of his thighs and Eliot was </span>
  <em>
    <span>there so close now. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“You’re so pretty. Do you know that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin blushed and tried to turn away--nothing he could do when Eliot captured him in his big warm hands and </span>
  <em>
    <span>made</span>
  </em>
  <span> him turn back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be good--tell the truth and answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when he blurted out--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh--no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And Eliot’s face scrunched all up--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Well that was just awful--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>allowed to say anything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not unless he wanted to stop. So instead he scooted closecloseclose on the couch until he was nearly in Eliot’s lap and pressed his head into that space it fit when Eliot hugged him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck. No, no, no.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot’s heart thumped under his ear--so loud and steady. “I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>mad. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Never. You’re extra sensitive. I need to be more careful with you.” Eliot wrapped his arms around Quentin, stroking up and down his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh good. Yes. Everything was amplified. And also kind of floaty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Be more careful, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But also maybe throw him around a bit?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here. Let’s undo these,” Eliot reached down and unhooked the carabiner link between the cuffs. Pins and needles radiated down his arms--tingly. Quentin shuddered and made a sound between a moan and whimper. A Woan. A Mimper? “There we go,” Eliot was pulling Quentin’s hands gently back into his lap, rubbing them, his long nice fingers went to pull the black cuffs entirely from his wrists.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But that felt wrong.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing them there, bands of black against his skin. Eliot had put them there. They should </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s brain was working honey slow and sticky, Eliot had the first cuff unbuckled and pulled off by the time that Quentin managed the words, “Yellow--El. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot dropped what he was doing his face </span>
  <em>
    <span>right there </span>
  </em>
  <span>before Quentin, studying him with brown and green and gold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quentin--what’s wrong? You need to slow down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin drew in a big breath, focusing-- “The cuffs--don’t. I want them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want them to stay on?” Eliot asked. Quentin nodded profusely, holding up his bare wrist. It felt so light now in comparison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just not yet?” Quentin said. “Please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. Of course.” Eliot was buckling and checking, petting over the skin above his wrists with his thumbs. He ran one finger up the latitude of his forearm and back down. Shivery along pale lines on Quentin’s that ran parallel. Up and down. He had his own small miracles that kept him here. “This is what you want? Do you want them linked again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. You choose.”All he knew was that he wanted them </span>
  <em>
    <span>on. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Holding him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baby. Come back for me, just a bit. Drink some water.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So then there was water and Eliot repeating himself while Quentin breathed and tried to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>and obey Eliot. Focusing and centering--coming back up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like them.” Quentin said finally. He swallowed a sip of water and rolled his shoulders. Warm and a bit sore. Not painful. “I don’t know why--just please leave them on, El. I feel out of it--I want what you want though. Just leave them on. Can’t--can’t do decisions right now. I trust you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot nodded, took the glass from his hands and set it back down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want what I want.” Eliot’s cheeks were flushed. “Because you’re mine, aren’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. He was going to burst into tears with the wanting he felt. With the rush of just hearing Eliot’s words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say it for me. I want to hear it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin would do practically anything to make Eliot happy, “I’m yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin looked down and away. Eliot wasn’t totally hard, but was definitely getting there. Quentin squirmed--he was pretty much soft in his own underwear, which was a strange development. But when he’d been down before--was that subspace?--he’d just felt warm all over and taken care of, arousal hadn’t entered into the equation. Sometimes he couldn’t--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I go back? Please?” Quentin asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot nodded and quietly leaned forward, kissing him on the lips. Sweet and slow, Quentin opened to him, whimpered into Eliot’s mouth when their tongues slipped against each other--</span>
  <em>
    <span>had Eliot even kissed him with tongue tonight?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>All too soon Eliot pulled away, took him by the elbow and pulled Quentin into his own bedroom. There were his stacks of books and his laundry basket and there was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot</span>
  </em>
  <span> pressing him down to the center of the bed, guiding Quentin’s hands to hold onto the headboard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep those up here for me, won’t you peach?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got it.” Quentin whimpered. Laying there. All stretched out again and Eliot was dressed and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking at him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>standing next to the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can talk as much as you want now for me.” Eliot stroked a hand down Quentin’s chest to his stomach and then casually palmed where he was soft. Quentin squirmed, feet kicking at the shocky sparks the rose up when Eliot touched him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t--” Quentin just had no fucking filter. And now he had no rule to keep it all in, so it just dribbled out. “I didn’t get hard--but it was really nice. But I didn’t--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot sat down on the edge of the bed then, pressed Quentin down with a huge hand on his chest. From thumb to pinky he could practically span the distance between Quentin’s nipples. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to get you hard?” Eliot asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded shakily, “If you want. Eliot, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You choose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted that--whatever El decided he deserved. To not have to make the choice right now--just drift along in whatever current Eliot created. He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> the assurance that he was going to come--weirdly. It would be nice, but so had the time he’d spent drifting at Eliot’s feet with nothing on his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So--whatever Eliot wanted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot closed his eyes for a long moment. Then finally, nodded almost to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me your safeword.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Giraffe.” Quentin knew that one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna come for me, Quentin.” Eliot’s hand pressed him further into the bed. Once, Quentin ate an edible in college and spent four hours unable to move--stomach roiling with heat and staticky pleasure--this was fucking close. “And then I’m not gonna stop until you’re begging me to. But use your safeword if you need it. Otherwise I’m not going to stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Please!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin shuddered against the sheet like he was already there on the edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna keep you,” Eliot leaned in, voice right there in his ear. Teeth nipping at his earlobe. Quentin shouted out. “Right here--like this for me. Shaking and desperate with wanting me. You’re flushed from head to toe, baby. Do you know what you look like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliot please touch me.” Quentin said, still staring at where Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> already touching him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah, semantics.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s tongue licked into his ear and Quentin’s basically sobbed. Eyes crushed closed. Hand somehow clutching Eliot’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Eliot’s hand was pressing Quentin’s wrist into the pillow, beside his bed. His eyes were all pupil, liquid and black, hair falling wildly over his forehead. So close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay where I put you, peach.” Eliot’s command was intense, somehow tempered by the utter sweetness with which he kissed Quentin on the cheek. “You’re insatiable. You want everything don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do.” Quentin flushed. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> want. For anything--everything Eliot would give him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s hand tensed around his wrist, right over the cuff still there. Quentin rocked up against that pressure, since it felt so good to feel nothing give, to be pressed right back down. Taking it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s no fucking fair, Q. You walk around all nervous and mild mannered with your sweet floppy hair and this </span>
  <em>
    <span>smile. These dimples.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin’s eyes glazed over, mouth open and panting. Eliot let go of his wrist, it stayed where it was on the pillow. He stroked the back of his hand over Quentin’s cheek like the hero in some tragic play. Damsels and poison. Monologues under moonlight. “And no one </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> about this part--how desperate you are for someone to do whatever they want to you. They think you’re some vanilla guy wandering about the city--sure you’ve got a mouth made for sucking cock or eating pussy--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A huge cold shock went through Quentin. Eyes blinked closed in embarrassment he cried out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“El.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Don’t!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he didn’t stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled darkly, his hand slid down Quentin’s chest and dropped over Quentin’s rapidly hardening cock over his underwear, rubbing there like he owned him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No--I don’t think I will. You need to know.” Eliot squeezed his dick, dropped lower and cupped his balls, just holding them. “What you look like. If they could only </span>
  <em>
    <span>see.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That under all those layers and your rambling--</span>
  <em>
    <span>peach</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you’re so slutty for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of the air left Quentin’s lungs in a shocked wheeze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” He shook his head. Because he shouldn’t--</span>
  <em>
    <span>that wasn’t.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And all of his pro-slut arguing </span>
  <em>
    <span>flew</span>
  </em>
  <span> from his brain for some reason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No?” Eliot took his hand away from Quentin’s dick and he actually cried out. “Don’t you whimper and beg me for it all the time? Any way you can get it. You’re so easy for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliot, please.” Quentin turned his face away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Eliot just kept touching Quentin’s face with such sweet little gestures that were so </span>
  <em>
    <span>perverse</span>
  </em>
  <span> when coupled with how he was talking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quentin, nothing would make you happier than if I kept you here like this--at my mercy and useless for anything else, forever.” Eliot stroked a thumb over his ear. Quentin struggled to breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What would they say--if they could see you like this for me?” Eliot continued. Quentin could feel himself sweating through into the duvet below him. “I bet there's a little part of you that wants to show off--show them how fucking good you are for me. Such a good </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweet</span>
  </em>
  <span> boy taking whatever I give you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’d--they’d laugh at me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot shushed him, “No baby. They’d take one look at you--the way you’re all wet for me from nothing at all--and they’d want you for themselves. But you know what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His body would probably implode with it but he still had to ask, “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re mine, peach.” Eliot dropped a hand back over his dick, the friction of his underwear cut down somewhat by the fluid he was leaking--but it was on the knife-edge of painful friction. His hips rose off the bed to get more. Eliot pressed him back down, laid a stinging slap to his thigh and Quentin’s eyes rolled back into his head. “I’m the only one who knows the secret.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m y-y-yours.” Quentin blurted out. His fingertips and toes were tingling. “Keep me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shut up, Coldwater.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The heel of Eliot’s hand ground over him with a dirty little press. He wrapped the other hand loosely around Quentin’s neck, right there across the fluttering pulse of his heart and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot’s palm was resting over his Adam’s apple. What if he pressed down? Not too much--just.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want--” Quentin babbled, “I want. Please just help me.” Eliot’s hand snaked into his underwear, gripped him and stroked and it was so fucking good and hot. He blinked his eyes open. To see Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span> sitting on the side of his bed-- “I’m yours--just </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch me</span>
  </em>
  <span>--I’ll do anything. I can’t--want you to do it--drag me to the bathroom and let me blow you so everyone knows. I’d do--want them to know--you’re mine. Mine, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot looked </span>
  <em>
    <span>stricken</span>
  </em>
  <span> and shocked. He nodded, “Everyone’s gonna know baby. Coming back to the party lips all bruised--can’t keep you quiet to save my fucking life. Gonna know how stupid lucky I am, having you around--sweet and hungry for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, knees knocking together, squirming. He was spreading his legs unconsciously--fuck. He was everything Eliot said--hungry and messy and wanton and </span>
  <em>
    <span>slutty.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baby--If I slide between those legs of yours, I’m never gonna leave. You hungry there too? Want me to fuck you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had no fucking words anymore. Just nodded and pleaded with his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think you can take it all?” Eliot asked, “Why am I even asking? Yeah, you’ll open up for me--beg me to fuck your tight little hole. Make you take it--ruin you for anyone else--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin cried out. “Eliot--I’m gonna. Don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot stroked him without mercy through his orgasm, the sounds of his own moaning mixed with the wet squelching sounds of Eliot jerking him off over and over again through the waves of pleasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>shaking</span>
  </em>
  <span> and calling out--maybe already begging but Eliot kept going and going, his hand trapped under Quentin’s underwear. Quentin whimpered and struggled, cried out against the sharp feeling of </span>
  <em>
    <span>too fucking much</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he was still somehow </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard and Eliot was still going.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Eliot was gathering up both of Quentin’s wrists in one hand and holding him </span>
  <em>
    <span>down </span>
  </em>
  <span>with just one hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, peach. You’ve got another one for me. I know it. Always rubbing off on me right after you come--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes--yes. Don’t stop--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But even as he begged for it, his hips shuddered and his whole body tried to shy away from Eliot’s hand, roll onto his side. It was so much. Too soon. Too fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But Eliot wanted.</span>
  </em>
  <span> So Quentin wanted anything--everything he could. Jesus, Eliot was right. He was so fucking easy. For it. For Eliot. Just any way that he could get it. He just wanted to be good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laying there, being handled so easily while he flopped about, heaving great big breaths like he’d never get enough air--the pressure built and built impossibly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on baby. Give it up for me.” Eliot’s breath puffed against Quentin’s chest. Then there was the sharp sting of his teeth up high over his right pec. He was gonna walk </span>
  <em>
    <span>around</span>
  </em>
  <span> like that, for days. If he could walk again after this. “Baby boy, working so hard. Let me take care of you--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breath punched out. When he looked down, Eliot’s face was pressed over the skin of his chest, tongue laving the red skin of the bite. He was an incubus, drawing out Quentin’s lifeforce through his dick, that was the only explanation how he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>look </span>
  </em>
  <span>like that. He hid those horns in all that hair of his--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baby boy?” he slurred. Was his lip quivering?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s hand tightened on his wrists, left them to pull Quentin into a positively filthy kiss. Quentin, just an uncoordinated mess, crying and resisting the urge to plunge his hands into Eliot’s hair--pull him closer by the horns. Eliot devoured him, thumbed the sensitive ridge of his cock over and over until Quentin actually sobbed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A spark fired off somewhere in his brain, catching a random--secret thought. Caught. Went up in an absolute </span>
  <em>
    <span>blaze</span>
  </em>
  <span> inside him in the span of seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was impossibly nearly there--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>About to fucking come--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot taking care of him--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His </span>
  <em>
    <span>baby boy--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Muttering against Eliot’s lips, a jumbled pathetic little cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot pulled away, kissing him all over. His cheek. Over his nose. Across his hairline--just everywhere and </span>
  <em>
    <span>he was--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Daddy--can I?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There was static in his ears as Eliot’s hand stopped all together and then a crushing curl of </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh no.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bad. Bad. Bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot pulled away. Eyes bright. Huge smile. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>There you are--</span>
  </em>
  <span>tell daddy what you want, baby. Ask me for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was crying--fucking, just, </span>
  <em>
    <span>again?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“C-can I call you that--daddy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot, </span>
  <em>
    <span>obliterated. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was--blinking quickly, shaking his head, brushing Quentin’s hair back tenderly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, come on, peach. Come for daddy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three rough strokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then. Oblivion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow the pressure just kept mounting and mounting. Quentin stared down at himself--at the small dribble of come that joined the mess on his stomach. His core tensed painfully--tears spiked in his eyes. Pleasure was pulled from the very marrow of his bones. From every corner and crevice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was reduced there to base elements, shaking and crying. Begging--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daddy--please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between the hitching, wet sobs Quentin flexed his hands, still crossed over his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I--I need you. Need to touch you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot pulled Quentin’s hands gently down, let go of his dick and Quentin whimpered at the loss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin blinked at Eliot, curled onto his side and grasped his hand, bringing it to his mouth--he needed. Needed it quiet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daddy--daddy did that. Made it quiet and feel so good. Daddy smiled down at him and told him he was a good boy while Quentin licked the broad span of his palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So fucking out of it--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d I get so lucky, peach?” He asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin had nothing. Nothing but the shivery aftershocks coursing through his body and the achy feeling between his legs--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He wanted--more.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He was right, Quentin was so easy for it--but just for Eliot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the task of licking the taste of himself off his hands, he held Eliot's arm more securely, to his chest like he might make a break for it at any point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he drifted and it was all the buzzing sensation of daddy taking care of him. Shushing him when he refused to let the arm go so he could slide his boxer shorts down and off him--his tongue gliding over and over where he was so sensitive and tender. Licking Quentin clean, pinning his hips down to the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin threw an arm over his face and just sobbed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand squeezed his. Quentin squeezed back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He lost time. Went from hazily aware that Eliot was licking him clean to the long line of Eliot’s naked body pressed against him atop the covers. Somehow along the way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s eyes hurt and his body felt wrung out and loose. There was just nothing else--this bed was floating alone in space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot was looking at him, stroking his cheek over and over with the back of his hand when Quentin blinked his eyes open and scooched closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daddy--” He had nothing else really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile--Quentin felt pinned back to the wall again, a tall body looming over him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m Eliot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re late--to your own party.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I would have taken you to the bathroom and sucked you off.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Any way you can get it. You’re so easy for it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love hearing you say that--I’m gonna take care of you, Quentin. Whatever you need. Whenever you want. Daddy’s gonna make it right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was I good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, warm dizzy joy when Eliot kissed him softly, nodding against him. Stroking a hand down Quentin’s ribs, running a curious touch over his soft dick. Quentin hissed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Daddy.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a switch, couldn’t be flipped back off now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d have a crisis about it--later. It just felt so good now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So good for me. Perfect. Gorgeous boy.” Eliot murmured against his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin basked in it even as his hips shied away from Eliot’s hand--too much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One more for me--I want it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Please, El.” No--that wasn’t right, “Daddy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can--you will for me. Come on, we’ll go slow, baby boy.” Hands pressed him back into the bed again. Quentin went went went. “Color?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d take it--anything. “Green--Daddy. Just, gentle? And could--will you finger me?” Quentin waited, a nervous little thing as Eliot pressed himself against Quentin’s hip. He was so hot and hard and huge--waiting. So good to Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh baby, yes. Daddy’s gonna make you feel so sweet inside--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot took Quentins plea to </span>
  <em>
    <span>heart. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He laid there beside him and proceeded to torment the hell out of him. Sweetly. With intention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other man seemed set on mapping out every single plane of Quentin’s body with his mouth and hands, giving it attention in the form of fleeting little touches here and there and </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was in that sweet torment that Quentin slipped back away until every touch Eliot placed on his skin amplified and had him moaning with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He touched Quentin </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>, except his dick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The backs of his fingers stroking over the tender skin of his throat, the flesh warmed metal of his rings a slick contrast to the light drag of skin on skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smoothed strong hands down both of Quentin’s thighs, releasing the tension out of his quads, then moving down the bed so he could press Quentin’s knees up and </span>
  <em>
    <span>open. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Until the breeze of the room on the skin of his inner thighs made him feel like he was going to rattle apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s hands petted over his strong shoulders, rocking down against the bed when Eliot pressed kisses and sucked marks all across his chest. Then, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dear god--</span>
  </em>
  <span>he bit at one of Quentin’s nipples, his other hand pinching and playing with the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Daddy!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin moaned with a different kind of pleasure, this one from Eliot’s lips and tongue torturing him. Eliot looked up at him, smirking there around the prize in his mouth--gave a long hard suck that ran along the narrow edge of </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough, please! </span>
  </em>
  <span>His hair was so soft under Quentin’s hands--no, don’t pull--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking </span>
  </em>
  <span>whenever his mouth was free, not dragging over skin or leaving sweet makes all over his skin.</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Telling Quentin how beautiful his body was until that’s what Quentin wanted to see--what Eliot saw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never do a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>with this chest hair.” Eliot growled somehow now between his legs, a heavy hand petting over Quentin’s pecs, the other pressing Quentin’s leg up to his chest, exposing him--just everything. “Any of this--unless you let </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> do it. You’re already so sweet--so fucking pretty, peach. But I think I would go 127 Hours down here just worshipping your thighs if they were all smooth for me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s brain officially dribbled out of his ears as Eliot proceeded to suck an epic hickie right there into the tender flesh of his inner thigh--fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>demon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin hated most upkeep associated with having a human body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tedious. Essential. But he’d never seen himself from that angle before--the view that Eliot had, looking directly down his thighs. It made Quentin want to close--hide, beg to turn out the bedside lamp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Eliot looked up at him with such a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fond, </span>
  </em>
  <span>approving expression, he just melted back into the bed and thought about what Eliot would look like if he didn’t keep his pubes all neat and orderly--it probably made his dick look like an absolute monster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had a moment to collect himself--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then--Eliot’s fingers, spit slick and perfect, pressing and rubbing around and around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Warm buzzy pleasure as he circled over and over Quentin’s hole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold this for me,” He grasped one of Quentin’s hands and guided it to the back of his knee--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holding himself open for Eliot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nowhere to hide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heart pounding in his ears, his dick sensitive and nowhere near hard enough to come again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin huffed out a whimper--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then--Eliot’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>mouth</span>
  </em>
  <span> was there. On him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Right there where he was so tender.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He licked a long strip from his asshole straight up to his balls--sore and sensitive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin dropped his leg--went to slam his legs closed but he was caught by two strong hands, banding across his thighs, pressing him back </span>
  <em>
    <span>further.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliot--n-not there.” Quentin stammered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot, rose up on his knees then, hands using Quentin’s legs to brace himself--pinning him wide open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baby boy--i’m gonna eat out regardless of what you tell me.” He said, looking at him right in the eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But--” Quentin began, “It’s--”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Filthy? Gross? So wrong--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s mine.” Eliot let go of one of his legs and pointedly pressed two fingers to his hole again, rubbing so hard stars swam in his vision. “And I intend to do what I want with it. So I’m going to get you all loose for me--kiss you where you want me to fuck you so much.” Quentin nodded, on that they agreed. He wanted Eliot to just split him open. Take what he wanted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--don’t have to.” Quentin’s voice came out soft and watery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daddy doesn't do anything he doesn’t want to,” He said, rubbing at him harder, faster little circles that made him clench instinctively. “Lay back--just let me make you feel so good. You smell like your vanilla body wash--already so sweet. You got all ready for daddy. No one’s done this for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I’ll be the first--you’re not the only one who’s spectacularly brilliant with their mouth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin went limp--all the fight just went out of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot hummed and pressed a kiss over the deep purple mark he’d left on Quentin’s thighs--and took him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>task</span>
  </em>
  <span> with his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wet, warm, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>demanding. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot shouldered his way between Quentin’s thighs--such broad shoulders--cupped Quentin’s pelvis in his hands and tilted him up to where he wanted him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>shocking</span>
  </em>
  <span> honestly--there was really nothing that Quentin could do but throw a hand over his own mouth and rock into Eliot as he </span>
  <em>
    <span>consumed him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As he opened Quentin up by relaxing him into it, kissing him </span>
  <em>
    <span>right there</span>
  </em>
  <span> like he was kissing Quentin’s lips. And little flames were shooting up his inner thighs at the pleasure of it--the alien sensation. Honestly at how </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span> it felt to have him down there--doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But Eliot wasn’t being quiet--he made his pleasure known in the groans he pressed into the sensitive skin of his rim, the way he rocked his hips against the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took Quentin </span>
  <em>
    <span>apart</span>
  </em>
  <span> until he was just breathing out shocked little gasps constantly--Eliot’s fingers joined, pressed in aided by the slickness he’d created. The long, slow press of one of those clever fingers, Eliot kissing around where their bodies were joined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peach--you’re so hot. So tight inside. Perfect for me--” Eliot spoke into the skin of his thigh. Quentin couldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>look </span>
  </em>
  <span>at him--it would just confirm he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>a supernatural creature. “Like you’ve never been touched here before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin imagined it--meeting Eliot at 19, rattling apart squeezed together in the twin bed of a dorm with Eliot’s hand over his mouth </span>
  <em>
    <span>because the RA is next door!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Blushing and shocked--punched out joy and discovery. Learning how to make room and </span>
  <em>
    <span>open.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe sneaking away into the room where all the coats were piled during a party--needing to get Eliot in his</span>
  </em>
  <span> mouth--</span>
  <em>
    <span>their friends wolf whistling when they got back--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot rocked his finger gently in and out, staying in deep, past the second knuckle--the rest of his fingers bent out to the way--waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feels--so good.” Quentin’s belly was trembling with it all. He glanced down--</span>
  <em>
    <span>big mistake. Huge.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Beyond the shaking expanse of his stomach, past where his dick was weakly drip-dropping little pearls of precome, laying between his obscenely spread thighs--was Eliot. Face wet, eyes all-black pupil, hair impossibly askew. And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wished--</span>
  </em>
  <span>that Eliot had been the first. “They haven’t--not like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s eyes widened, he pressed his middle finger against the soft give of Quentin’s hole and pushed inside--two fingers now. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where the fuck had he gotten lube from?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I’ve got you, peach. I’m gonna fuck you on my fingers until you come again--gonna be so proud of you. Taking it for me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, “For you, daddy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot growled and dove back down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then it was all just thrusting fingers, the press of lips, the tease of tongue alongside--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Searching, curling digits until--”</span>
  <em>
    <span>OHMYGOD!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then Eliot really did have to fight to keep Quentin’s legs open, not to get him away, but to keep him there, pressing against that spot that lit up every light inside him. Pressing and grinding against his prostate inside, then his thumb stroking the skin there on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>outside.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It was nothing like when he came the last two times. It was waves and waves pulsing without end--without his dick even getting hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, </span>
  <em>
    <span>look.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot told him. And Quentin did, scrambling up on his elbows as his core tensed tighttighttigh and he was coming--white fluid pulsing weakly in the little pool against his belly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What the hell.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was crying and scrambling there in the incessant pressure that he felt--white hot and all over. From the tips of his fingers to his toes.</span>
</p><p><span>“Oh--</span><em><span>Eliot.” </span></em><span>Quentin</span> <span>cried out. And he wasn’t stopping, firm little presses against Quentin’s prostate and he was whiting </span><em><span>out </span></em><span>with it. “Fuck! Oh my god, okay that’s enough.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Ears ringing, body jolting, pulling away only to be reeled back </span>
  <em>
    <span>in.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on--peach, say it again for me. Then I’ll stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“F-f-fucking sadist!” Quentin stammered. “Daddy--it’s too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>god, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he relented, pulling his fingers out of Quentin. He made an embarrassing, pathetic sound, grabbing for any part of Eliot that he could reach. Clambering to touch him--needing him there. But his muscles were all like water balloons, rubbery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot pressed close and basically let Quentin wrap himself around him, all arms and legs everywhere. Sticking his head into Eliot’s shoulder while he rubbed Quentin’s back and talked but Quentin couldn’t hear any of it over the pounding of his heart in his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt the press of Eliot against his thigh, hot and hard, leaking there. So turned on and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quentin had done that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please can I?” he asked, charmingly wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Can I blow you? I want to--please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot didn’t tease him, just nodded and guided his head down--held his hair back so he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>see. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And Quentin was sloppy and uncoordinated, basically able to just jack him off with the crown in his mouth but Eliot was panting and it seemed like enough for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt a great swell of pride when Eliot warned him--then he was coming, there in his mouth. Across his tongue, some of it escaping because </span>
  <em>
    <span>like it couldn’t get any worse</span>
  </em>
  <span> there was just so much of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin drew back, panting. Threw himself on his back to catch his breath. Laying so far down the bed his shins were hanging off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come back--” Eliot patted the bed beside him, eyes still closed. His hair was fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrecked.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No--you come here.” Quentin said, but he was already crawling up to meet him by the head board. “I’m dead. I’m obliterated. You’ve killed me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot snorted, Quentin loved him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I want that twink obliterated!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He laughed to himself--probably some meme. “Mission fucking accomplished--go home boys.” he punctuated it with a playful slap to Quentin’s butt. “Should I speak at your funeral? I give </span>
  <em>
    <span>great</span>
  </em>
  <span> black widow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his face practically smashed into Eliot’s armpit, Quentin giggled--”I don’t have a tub big enough for this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot rolled over onto him with a feral sound, braced himself up on his arms--”Who says I’m done with you, peach? Come to daddy.” Quentin yelped when he dropped down onto him. Squealed. Melted under him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Obliterated.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Obliterated.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So if you were ever planning on leaving me a comment--consider it now because i'm super nervous about posting this chapter. :I </p><p>Thank you all for your continued support--I swear these two are gonna get their feelings in order soon enough!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Is this a kissing book? (Part 1)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Back on my two part bullshit.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Please come out you guys! Jane! Rupert--” </em>
</p><p>They were standing in a gross little abandoned lot behind some restaurant. Eliot fondly shook his head at Quentin as he was apologizing and simultaneously scooping wet food from a can and onto a paper plate on the ground.</p><p>“--Anyway, I’m so sorry guys! I promise it won’t happen again. I’ll make sure to call Kady next time!” Quentin kept trying to peek under a truck up on cinder blocks. Eliot guessed it was to see the cats in question but it really only resulted in him sticking his tight little ass out. “Martin’s doing good! There’s that at least--he’ll be back soon.”</p><p>Quentin brushed off his knees and stood back up--behind them an early morning delivery truck went by.</p><p>“Getting the cold shoulder?” Eliot asked, suppressing a yawn.</p><p>Standing in an--<em>once again it couldn’t be understated how gross </em>--abandoned lot at the ass crack of dawn wasn’t exactly his ideal Sunday morning. But when Quentin had jolted out of bed that morning muttering, “Oh no! Oh shit! Fuck!” in full darkness, Eliot knew it probably was a better idea to just borrow some laughably short joggers and head out the door with him.</p><p>He looked like a newsie. But Eliot also didn’t want to subject his wool crepe pants to a gross little abandoned lot. So he could deal. Even if his ankles were cold.</p><p>Even with Quentin wringing his hands and standing beside him, but still leaning down to look under the truck, looking sleepy but worried.</p><p>“They already fucking hate me, El.” Quentin muttered.</p><p>A little thrill went through him at the nickname innocuous as it was.</p><p>“They’re feral cats, Quentin. I think scrounging for their own food for the night won’t kill them.” Eliot confided. He knew enough about barn cats, assumed it carried over to their city companions. They were hearty fuckers.</p><p>“No--but any number of other horrifying things could.” Quentin kicked the ground petulantly, standing back up.</p><p>There was nothing to do but sling an arm around his shoulder and pull him into his side. Both of them in their coats since it was getting colder in the city and there was even a bit of frost on the weeds growing out of the cracks in the pavement in this gross little abandoned lot.</p><p>Eliot squeezed him, “Aww there he is--that’s the optimist I know and love--”</p><p>
  <em> JEEZ LOUISE. </em>
</p><p>What the fuck was he thinking?</p><p>Eliot gripped his cane tightly, body tensing--waiting. Waiting for Quentin to do what exactly, he didn’t know. Maybe he could blame the outburst on being delirious with phantom pain? Throw himself on the ground--</p><p>Instead, Quentin looked like he was gonna try to break away to probably roll himself under the car and utter himself completely too disgusting for human contact ever again--</p><p>A shame really.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell it to my team of mental health professionals.” Quentin muttered. Eliot absolutely would not let him climb under that car. No way no how.</p><p>He let out a big put-upon sigh, dropping his head to Eliot’s shoulder. </p><p>It was probably that he was tired that he did it. Or that he was stressed. Maybe it was because Quentin and Eliot were finally hitting some kind of new level of friendship where he’d let himself relax into all of Eliot's touches--even when they weren’t about to fuck in new and interesting ways.</p><p>
  <em> Eliot would absolutely positively not let himself believe it was because Quentin Coldwater had called him ‘daddy’ the night before. </em>
</p><p>Not just the once.</p><p>But about a hundred times--even once they’d both ruled out another orgasm as something that would kill them dead. He’d said it sweetly while they were laying there, legs tangled together in Quentin’s bed. Sleepily, later when Eliot bundled them both into Quentin’s tragically small bathtub when he <em> finally </em> got to have Quentin in his lap all warm and sleepy. Wrung out. Annoyed, when Eliot prodded him to eat half a sleeve of Fig Newtons he’d scrounged from the pantry.</p><p>Just so stupid perfect.</p><p>Regardless of what had led to Quentin pitifully glaring at an abandoned car with his head on Eliot’s shoulder, he was happy to remain there until further notice.</p><p>“I’m sure they’re just not back from the Jellicle ball.” Eliot told him.</p><p>Quentin grumbled something. “Sorry I dragged you out of bed this morning--you didn’t have to--”</p><p>Eliot rolled his eyes, “Like hell was I not gonna see why you were trying to pull a pair of sweatpants over your head frantically before the crack of dawn.</p><p>Plus now he got to see Quentin in the early morning golden light as it broke over the city--here in this gross little abandoned lot.</p><p>What could be better?</p><p>Well, seeing the same light, only firmly ensconced in Quentin’s bed for one thing. Both of them naked--his ankles warm and toasty.</p><p>“Come on--they won’t come out with us standing around waiting for them.” Quentin pivoted under his arm but didn’t move <em> away </em> so instead they were turning together, Quentin still there beside him.</p><p>It <em> had to be </em> because he was still sleepy.</p><p>That had to be why they slowly walked back towards the apartment in the early morning hours before the rest of the city peeled itself out of bed to make for brunch at a respectable time. Luckily, it was deserted enough that Eliot wasn’t concerned at his appearance when Quentin pulled him into a small bakery on the way home for fresh chocolate eclairs and ham and cheese croissants.</p><p>They walked back, Quentin holding onto a white box tied with a red string and Eliot holding Quentin.</p><p>Wordlessly, they both decided that it wasn’t worth going back to bed--Eliot would settle for maybe a nap in the afternoon after he got home if he was that exhausted.</p><p>Quentin made them coffee and set out cream and sugar. A carton and a little bowl with a spoon on the counter, respectively. Eliot made himself comfortable leaning against the cabinets and shooting down every one of the novelty mugs that Quentin pulled down from the cabinet until he pulled out one that said ‘Wine Mom’ on it.</p><p>His back was turned to Eliot when he finally spoke up-- “So what you saw yesterday--I just wanted to explain. That wasn’t me, um depressed or anything. That’s just how I get sometimes when I’m working.” Quentin set his mug down on the counter by Eliot’s elbow and spooned a bunch of sugar into his own cup. “Which you were probably pretty bound to see at some point--It’s kind of complicated. I guess. But I was fine.”</p><p>Eliot was aware there was an entire emotional spectrum of <em> ‘fine’ </em> . He himself, having spent most of his life declaring himself to be fine while <em> actually </em> feeling like utter dogshit.</p><p>“I get it--I do. Who hasn’t been prone to locking themselves away for a three-day work bender when inspiration strikes?” Eliot really could sympathize. But Eliot wasn’t on medication for depression--at the moment. So it was kind of different. “And I’m sorry that you weren’t prepared to see <em> me </em> at your door last night--but i’m not sorry that I came.”</p><p>Quentin snorted into his coffee, reached for an orange bottle on the window sill above the sink and tapped out what was likely his Adderall for the day.</p><p>Whew boy, here it went-- “Q, you just gotta know--for me, it’s not just about sex or whatever. I care about you,” <em> don’t say it, don’t say as a friend, </em>“I’m just--I bond fast.”</p><p>“I’ve known you for almost a decade.” Quentin said. Such a brat. Adderall and coffee on a so far empty stomach--he was on Eliot’s entire collegiate diet if he had a hip flask. <em> Fuck </em>he’d been a skinny little shit.</p><p>“Yeah--well I didn’t have your phone number until three weeks ago so that really endears a guy to you.” Eliot waved a hand at him. “It’s like--with my leg thing. You help with that--I can help with this. In whatever way I can.”</p><p>“By making me do chores, feeding me dinner, and then causing permanent nerve damage via orgasms? Because I think you pretty much broke the fucking loop I was in right there with that one.”</p><p>
  <em> He. Was. The. Worst.  </em>
</p><p>Eliot was going to keep him.</p><p>“Yeah--or you could just <em>call me.</em> Maybe take a break. Crazy as it sounds--or we could hang out and watch TV. Or yeah--I can take you out of your mind for a couple hours. I just don’t love the idea of you going all Howard Hughes in your apartment alone.” </p><p>Eliot finally took a sip of coffee, willing it to make him stronger, help him resist the urge to thoroughly screw up his hip by bending sleepy little Quentin over the counter before it was even 8 a.m. or tell him he was flap-jack over the moon for him. Even if he was being obstinate and <em> Quentin. </em></p><p>Quentin huffed. He got cagey sometimes. Best for Eliot to take whatever it was and gently course correct them.</p><p>“Well--it goes both ways, Eliot. You could call me, too.” He stamped his little foot. Like actually.</p><p>
  <em> Best-selling literary twunk. </em>
</p><p>“Yeah. Suppose I could.” Eliot found himself saying. Yes. That was very true. “We’re friends--we don’t only need to see each other when you’re naked or when Bambi is eyefucking some waiter.” Just float it out there--just see.</p><p>“That’s right!” Quentin exclaimed.</p><p>Why did it sound like they were arguing when they were just agreeing to hang out more?</p><p>Why was Eliot’s heart going to leap out of his throat at any moment and tap dance on the counter?</p><p>“Fine then it’s settled!” Eliot jumped in. He loved a bit of drama. “Then you’re coming over to my studio on Wednesday and then we’re gonna go eat tapas. And I’m <em> not </em> gonna fuck you. Don’t even try it with your wiley ways.”</p><p>
  <em> What was his life fucking come it? </em>
</p><p>“Fine!” Quentin nodded, jaw clenched. “<em> Jesus. </em>My neighbors are gonna fucking hate me.”</p><p>Eliot mentally gave himself a pat on the back at least for his part in bringing the house down last night.</p><p>“It was really--so fucking good Eliot.” Quentin had a lost, faraway look in his eyes as he sipped his coffee. He’d need to get some carbs into Quentin here soon. “Um--at least for me.”</p><p>“Me too.” Eliot added, covering up any other mortifyingly heartfelt thing that might come bursting out of his mouth by taking a sip of coffee--shooing Quentin away from the plates so they could dish up pastries.</p><p>“I mean, I just kind of feel like I’m a teenager again, but is never that--good, it’s just that you think about it too much. Sex. I mean. But now, it’s like good <em> and </em> I can’t stop thinking about it.,” Quentin continued his own crusade to get himself bent over said counter in his own home. “I mean--not that it’s not totally valid to experiment sexually throughout your life. And I know that 30 is the new 20. So all things considered--it’s not like it took that long to realize. But just-- <em> fuck </em>, um I mean, I write about this shit for a living and you’d think that would have maybe translated somehow into realizing--”</p><p>“Q, do you also slay dragons or like possess a magic watch that lets you bend time to your will?” Eliot asked, setting down the plate, untying the string. Fussing. </p><p>
  <em> “Well--no.” </em>
</p><p>“And I don’t think Anne Rice was at any point in her life a hot queer vampire. I mean--anything is possible really. But, you don’t <em> need </em> to be anything.” Eliot set a croissant on a plate before Quentin. “And I don’t really think that comparing yourself to anyone else’s experience--especially Twinky little Ciaran running about getting into sexy shenanigans--is that productive. But on an utterly unrelated note--same. I’m basically playing like a ‘best-of’ montage of your crygasm face on repeat all the fucking time.”</p><p>Quentin blinked at him.</p><p>Once.</p><p>Twice.</p><p>Three times.</p><p>“You’re a sadist.” Quentin put his nose up in the air and marched to the couch. Eliot followed him with an eclair.</p><p>Well he was--yeah, <em> maybe a little. </em>But only in a fun way.</p><p>Only because Quentin liked it, clearly. The teasing--the embarrassment of it all.</p><p>“I was trying to compliment you--you know.” Quentin pouted from the end of the couch, much too far away from Eliot at the other end. Still, that didn’t stop Eliot from kicking up his legs with a sigh--fucking colder weather was coming. He could feel it in his bones. “Because your--uh, more <em> experienced </em> or whatever. But you don’t make me feel like I'm--um. I don’t know. Like it’s fine that I’m 30 and I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve had intercourse with.”</p><p>He said <em> intercourse. </em></p><p>“Why would it bother me?” In Eliot’s opinion, the fewer people who saw Quentin naked, the better. He didn’t want to have to go around waiting for a mob of people to take him away because they <em> knew </em> what it was like when he was all stretched out and pretty. “Do you <em> care </em>--about me?”</p><p>“No way--I’m pro slut. All the way.” Quentin said.</p><p>“You have a smart mouth, Coldwater.” Eliot groused, poking him in the hip with a sock-clad toe. He actually jostled with it. So easy.</p><p>“Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?” So fucking innocent--</p><p>Sitting there with his stupid croissant and his <em> who me? </em>eyes.</p><p>He was gonna get it. Whatever it was.</p><p><em> It </em>turned out to be making out on the couch like teenagers between bites of leisurely breakfast. He’d never turn down the opportunity to bare down on Quentin, just absolutely cover him with his body to feel him writhing there beneath him.</p><p>At one point, Quentin pulled away with a stern, sure expression on his face despite the fact that he was sporting a major case of beard burn. He took a deep breath-- “Look--about the daddy thing. That’s not all the time, okay?”</p><p>“Fine, fine. Whatever.” Eliot was already dipping down to suck an epic mark into Quentin’s collarbone, the neckline of his t-shirt wrenched to the side in Eliot’s hand.</p><p>“Okay cool! As long as that’s clear! Guh--”</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>They ended up having on those weird 36 hour dates. Two nights and everything.</p><p>
  <em> But it wasn’t a date. </em>
</p><p>The kind of shit that happened in movies. Because normal people had laundry to do or errands to run, or they just wanted to be <em> alone. </em></p><p>Well, Quentin had those things to do, too. It just so happened that Eliot tagged along.</p><p>And the <em> talking, </em> just so much of it. About things you’d think that Eliot would have <em> known </em> having been around Quentin for nearly a decade--</p><p>“Yeah--it was a creative writing prompt, got a bit, um out of control.” They were folding laundry. Quentin was talking about how he got started writing.</p><p>“As in laying on the floor out of control?”</p><p>“The floor is a <em> great </em> place to work! It’s the biggest desk in the house.” Quentin threw a sock at him.</p><p>Or things about <em> Eliot </em> that got a glorious little shock out of Q.</p><p>“Water aerobics?” They were on the way to a restaurant around the block to pick up Q’s meal prep. And lunch! “Seriously?”</p><p>“Yes and every elderly woman is <em> desperately </em>in love with me!” Eliot threw back his hair dramatically. “The geriatric crowd are onto something--it’s good for the hips!”</p><p>“I have to see that!”</p><p>They even did a bit of co-working despite it being Sunday--Eliot being a bohemian artiste who didn’t follow the normal patterns of a work week and Quentin getting extra twitchy in the afternoon, shooting furtive looks at his laptop.</p><p>“It’s fine, Quentin.” Eliot told him, much more at ease now that he’d changed back into his rumpled clothing. He was going to look like one big wrinkle when he got home later. He pulled out his iPad and his Airpods and held them aloft. “I have sketches to do anyway.”</p><p>Neither of them mentioned anything about it ending--Eliot going home. So he didn’t.</p><p>Quentin eyed Eliot’s overnight bag with open interest. He blushed a bit at the sight of it. The cuffs that Eliot had put on him last night were still on his nightstand. It was a 50/50 shot that he’d ‘forget’ them here--an excuse to come back. <em> Or </em>make Quentin bring them back over, he’d probably blush the whole damn trip.</p><p>“You don’t have like, a flogger in there or something, do you?”</p><p>
  <em> Oh, Quentin. </em>
</p><p>“If you’re a good boy, maybe you’ll find out.” Eliot shrugged.</p><p>Quentin went pink around the edges and fled the couch. He set up shop at his desk this time, one of those standing ones that went up and down so there was an option for him to sit at least if he wanted to.</p><p>It was all just very <em> domestic? </em> Sitting there in the same room, listening to more of Quentin’s book, drinking the tea that Quentin set on the coffee table for him at some point when he made a mug for himself. Quentin muttered to himself when he wrote, rocked from foot to foot absently there at his desk. He pulled his hair back into one of his messy little buns that just <em> begged </em> to be tugged on.</p><p>They worked like that until around 6, when Eliot made the executive decision that he was going to order pizza and knew that Quentin wouldn’t be able to kick him out at least until that had been demolished.</p><p>Margo had tasked Eliot with a little project for the party, she wanted to recreate several of the iconic looks from Quentin’s series for the press and fans to take photos of. They were going to live on mannequins throughout the party and event space. He had five he was going to make--she’d given him a budget that was <em> fair </em>but a bit restrictive. Eliot would need to get creative with some things he already had.</p><p>He’d gone to wikipedia first but <em> boy oh boy </em> did Quentin have dedicated fans, because the articles for the books were just stacked with information. Eliot had known the basics of course--the books took place from the main character’s point of view in two worlds. One very much like our own, just in the early 2000s, and the other was a fantastical, magical realm full of talking animals and probably unicorns. <em> But somehow it was sexy there? </em></p><p>Eliot had a hard time parceling out.</p><p>What made Exandria so stupid hot?</p><p>So he’d decided to actually do his homework, like he would have for any other job. Reading the play and researching the time period. Looking for inspiration in the media--maybe getting a little high and playing around with some sketches.</p><p>Eliot was still less than a quarter of the way through the first book, the hero of the story was still trapped back on Earth. It seemed that he’d been pulled out of time and space somehow at the tender age of 23 into another world--Exandria. He’d slayed a dragon, overthrown an evil sorcerer to put his boyfriend--the lovely <em> Sebastian </em> who also sounded like kind of an asshole and wasn’t even <em> in </em> the series until book two according to Wikipedia--on the throne, and grown old there. <em> Gotten married even </em>. Then--just like that, he’d woken up one morning back in his bed, in his pajamas like nothing had ever happened. So he was going to go back.</p><p>Oh, and apparently at some point Ciaran and Sebastian fucked in a tree about three times according to Margo. <em> That, he had to hear. </em></p><p>Eliot wasn’t into fantasy, but Quentin was an <em> excellent </em> writer, he really was. And Ciaran’s inner monologue was funny, witty, and heartbreaking at times.</p><p>“This fucker better get back there, that’s all I’m saying, Q.” Eliot wagged a finger at him.</p><p>Quentin sighed and comically shrugged. “No spoilers, man.”</p><p>Eliot huffed and plated up pizza. “Come on, take a break.”</p><p>So they ate on the couch because apparently Quentin didn’t believe in owning a dining room table. Between bites of pizza, Eliot picked his brain about the characters he’d vaguely heard of so far, and explained what he was doing.</p><p>“Well, for sure you need to do Sebastian. There's a lot of cosplay already.” Quentin mentioned. Eliot made a note to check that out. Anything he might not be able to make would need to be fabricated and if there were already experts out there… “I don’t want to give too much away.” Quentin had the sweetest little fond look on his face when he talked about them.</p><p>“What about this Fairy Queen?” Eliot asked.</p><p>Quentin’s eyes practically popped out of his head-- “Oh yeah--she’s <em> unique. </em> I’ll say that. I think you’ll like her. She’s <em> the worst </em> but also a bad bitch.”</p><p>“Ciaran?”</p><p>Quentin waved a hand, “Oh--you don’t need to do him. There’s other characters who are much more interesting.”</p><p>Eliot’s eyebrows went up to his hairline. “Quentin, he’s the <em> main </em> character of your books. I kinda <em> have </em> to make him something.”</p><p>“Eliot, he’s the outsider, he spends most of book one in the same jeans and Nirvana t-shirt! He’s not like a fashion icon? He’d just, a guy?” Quentin shoved about half a slice of pizza into his mouth, endlessly charming.</p><p>“Yeah--well any guy who has thrice fucked in a tree is interesting enough for me.” Eliot dragged a piece of crust through some sauce on his plate and popped it into his mouth.</p><p>Quentin got a faraway look on his face.</p><p><em> “Yeah. </em> You know I’m realizing now that like <em> most </em> of the sex scenes I’ve written are kinda kinky without me knowing it?” Quentin asked.</p><p>“Elaborate. Now.” Eliot demanded, then. “Please.”</p><p>Quentin rolled his eyes, “I mean, I effectively wrote about a guy who gets man-handeled a lot by a big, strapping guy who is usually decked out head to toe in black leather armor. And there’s practically <em> always </em> someone around they need to keep quiet from. Sebastian called Ciaran ‘Dear Heart--” How the fuck was a pet name like sexual napalm to Quentin Coldwater? “’-- <em> anyway, </em> I guess what I mean is that at least there won’t be a <em> huge </em> leap for my readers with the new book.”</p><p>So casual. How could he be so casual about this while now Eliot was going to have to mine a six book series for kinky little breadcrumbs that may be clues as to what Quentin was into in bed?</p><p><em> Then-- </em> while Eliot was all unsuspecting and plotting, Quentin had to go ahead and drop a bomb on any plans he had for the rest of the evening that involved reorganizing his bowties and packing away his summer linens.</p><p>“Hey--so ah, since you’re here and all, do you wanna maybe um--put me in those cuffs again?” Quentin asked. </p><p>Like ‘hey El, could you take this recycling out?’ and ‘hey El, you wanna revisit those plans of locking me in your apartment forever?’</p><p>Eliot, fighting to not grab Quentin right there and now, carefully finished chewing and set down his plate.</p><p>Because he was <em> asking for this. </em>Because he liked it. Because he was wonderful. And sometimes frustrating. Often a bit of a brat. But wonderful.</p><p>“Um--I mean, we don’t have to. It doesn’t have to be as <em> intense. </em> Uh--I guess.” Quentin was wearing himself thin with his instant backtracking. “I want to stick around more, mentally. I think. If that’s--if you have <em> time.” </em></p><p><em> Oh. </em> He’d make time for this, summer linens could <em> wait. </em></p><p>But cleaning out the stinky cats ears <em> couldn’t </em>. And neither could Quentin’s meds. And then there were the feral cats to contend with.</p><p>“Tell you what--I’m gonna leave you here with a couple things to do for me.” Eliot said. “I’ll go feed those cats who hate you and you’ll be a good boy and follow my directions, sound alright to you?”</p><p>Quentin’s eyes went huge and round--nodding.</p><p>So Eliot told him exactly what he wanted to do. Load the dishwasher, take his meds in a few minutes, finish his water, take care of Martin.</p><p>“Then,” Eliot reached into his bag and pulled out a Ziploc with a playful little black silicone butt plug in it. Because <em> lint. </em> It was small but it had a nice little curve. “I want you to open yourself up enough for this with your fingers--and don’t skimp on the lube, work it into you for me, put on your pajamas, pick a movie, and wait for me on the couch. Oh, and bring the cuffs out with you.”</p><p>“Eliot, you had a butt plug in your <em> bag </em> on the Subway!” Quentin exclaimed.</p><p>Eliot rolled his eyes, “Quentin, I think I’m hardly the only person who was in possession of a butt plug on that train. Color?”</p><p>“Oh man. Green.”</p><p>So he left Quentin, pink-cheeked and already panting. He had a little shopping bag of provisions for the cats. He took his time, enjoying the night air and Quentin’s quiet neighborhood.</p><p>Somehow, he ran into Kady and her boyfriend, Penny on the street, coming from the opposite way. Kady had a carrier that definitely was mewling when they turned the corner, bickering as always--</p><p>“We would have gotten them sooner if you’d just let me--”</p><p>“I’m not gonna fucking call the fucking fire department because you got your arm stuck in a drainpipe, asshole!” Kady snarled at him.</p><p>Eliot flagged them down, stopped for a quick chat.</p><p>“The hell, Waugh? I thought you’d claimed Manhattan as your sovereign territory.” Kady looked him up and down.</p><p>Eliot shrugged, “I can be convinced to leave my throne under the right circumstances.”</p><p>Penny snorted.</p><p>“Yeah--right cool. Well we need to get a move on--check on the Catwins,” Kady said, more to her boyfriend than Eliot. “And then get this fucker home. He needs a flea bath.”</p><p>“Oh--i’ve got the Catwins.” Eliot held his stupid bag of food aloft.</p><p>Both of them stared at Eliot with twin looks of <em> oh, really? </em> Arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.</p><p>“You look, um--” Kady began.</p><p>“You have major sex hair.” Penny put in. His first addition to the conversation.</p><p>“It’s been very humid.” Eliot rose to the defense of his hair which was actually yes, kind of a wild mess.</p><p>“I’m sure it has.” Penny nodded. “Up Coldwater’s ass.”</p><p>
  <em> Small fucking world. </em>
</p><p>Eliot smiled fondly, “This has been lovely, but I’m sure you have pussy to attend to. As do I. Good day.”</p><p>Then there was the matter of feeding the beasts who only came out from under the car when their plates were laden with both wet and dry food. Eliot, throwing the empty bag and old plates into the dumpster.</p><p>They were both <em> huge </em> and somewhat dingy from their life outdoors, both had one of their ears clipped--probably because Quentin got them spayed and neutered. Martin had been fluffy and clean, fur extra white and bunny-like in Eliot’s arms earlier. The other cats were similar in coloring, but one was all ginger with white socks and the other was white with big fat spots of orange throughout their coat.</p><p>And they were dicks. They ate the food Eliot put out for them but totally hissed and snarled at him if he got closer than ten feet away.</p><p>No bother--Eliot was keen to take a proof of life photo for Quentin and then make his merry way home.</p><p>It was a slower walk, maybe to give Quentin enough time to get his little list of chores done. Also kind of out of necessity with his leg the way it was. He felt much better since his last injection--which he <em> knew </em> he’d waited too long to get, he did. So there was a small amount of stiffness and a few twinges of pain here and there.</p><p>Nothing that was going to stop him from what he had planned for Quentin--which was mostly an evening on the couch regardless.</p><p>He wanted to keep Quentin with him this time--more present. It was frankly, <em> lovely </em> to have him totally blissed out and deep into subspace but Eliot wanted to peer into that dirty little brain of his--get more out of him about those little half formed fantasies he tended to blurt out of nowhere.</p><p>By the time that Eliot arrived back at the apartment, letting himself in with the keys he’d borrowed from Quentin, the man in question was sitting on the couch, fiddling with his phone and chewing on his thumbnail. But instead of his usual coiled-up knees under him or pretzel-like contortions, he was sitting with his back ramrod straight, on the edge of the couch.</p><p>What a nice, relaxing evening they were going to have.</p><p>Eliot greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and grabbed a sweater from his overnight bag, went to the bathroom to clean up a bit, wash his hands, brush his teeth after the garlicky sauce on the pizza. He tried to fix his hair <em> at all </em> by scrunching a bit of water into it, taming the flyaways somewhat. Then, he changed into his sweater and the ridiculously short joggers he’d worn earlier. They did basically nothing to hide the shape of his dick.</p><p>Great. That was the aesthetic he was going for. Cozy--<em> don’t say boyfriend </em>--sex friend (???) here for a movie night with a side of casual bondage and dirty talk.</p><p>Yup. Perfect.</p><p>“You good?” Eliot asked. He swung around the apartment, switching off whatever lights he could find until it was just the glow of the DVD menu--’The Princess Bride’ filling the room.</p><p>Quentin jumped a little, “Huh? What. Yeah.” he mumbled, scrolling through something.</p><p>Eliot plopped down on the couch, right in the middle, squishing Quentin into the corner along the arm rest. He startled. Uptight.</p><p>“Come on, Q. Relax.” Eliot put his feet up on the coffee table, crossed his ankles. “You got everything all ready for me. Now we can just sit back and have a lot of appropriate physical reactions to Westley.”</p><p>Quentin let out a manic little snort laugh, pressed his hand over his face and threw his phone down on the side table. “You’re the worst. I’m fine--good. Just. it’s. <em> Interesting. </em>”</p><p>Eliot pulled out a classic move, draping his arm over the back of the couch, locked and loaded to drop it to Quentin’s shoulders at any moment.</p><p>“Peach, just start the movie.” </p><p>But then, reaching over to the coffee table Eliot noticed the cuffs sitting there, all innocuous and <em> requested. </em></p><p>“Gosh, wait. What was I thinking?” Eliot sighed. He leaned over and picked them up, Quentin had linked them back together and honestly the thought of his sure hands doing back up the link was magical. Quentin made one of those tragic little sounds of his, “Here we go.” </p><p>Eliot picked up Quentin’s hand, closed the first one around his wrist, looked up at him. Quentin nodded and held up his other hand. He took that hand of Quentin’s, held it between his own and wanted to do the same on a street somewhere or at a party, dragging Quentin away from some boring conversation.</p><p>He buckled the second cuff.</p><p>Quentin huffed. Looking down at his hands, there bound together in his lap.</p><p>After last night, he didn’t want to strain his shoulders any more. Plus, this made it far more comfortable for Eliot to throw a blanket over both of their laps. “Go on. Start the movie.” Quentin leaned forward and had to reach out with both hands, awkwardly clasp the remote between them with his palms so close together. He grumbled under his breath about it the whole time, but eventually hit the play button and settled back into the couch.</p><p>Eliot really <em> did </em> watch the movie, for a while. He had to admit that there was a really engaging quality to it--such a weird sense of realism and fantasy. Plus Indigo and Westley were both super hot and Buttercup was a fashion <em> icon </em> in poppy red with her long hair crimped and flowing on her horse.</p><p>Strangely, this had been one of the <em> few </em> movies Eliot had been allowed to watch as a kid. He guessed that even sexist, racist, homophobes still found Andre the Giant endearing. Eliot used to sit on the floor, there in the family room, knobby knees poking out from under his shorts, nose practically pressed to the screen on long, sticky, lingering summer nights. Brothers calling out bullshit. Mom, shushing them. Dad, asleep and snoring in the easy chair, a sweating glass of bourbon on the side table.</p><p>Wishing. Wanting. Hoping. To be a little boy whose grandfather came to his bedside when he was sick to read him a story about love and kissing. To be Buttercup and get the hell out of that tower, climb onto the back of a white horse and ride into the sunset. To be Indigo and avenge the crimes against him with swift violence and one hell of a vest.</p><p>Maybe he’d taken a little too much of Westley to heart--rendering himself probably unrecognizable from the man he’d been before when he’d left Indiana?</p><p>
  <em> Nah. </em>
</p><p>Sitting there with his arm curling Quentin ever closer and closer, the other man’s hands absently flexing around the blanket in his lap.</p><p>Then, just the littlest sound. A slip of a thing--when Buttercup was sitting there, awaiting The Dread Pirate Roberts to arrive, hands tied before her with a blindfold over her eyes.</p><p>Quentin let out a tortured chuckle, shifting against the couch. “Huh--Uh, I forgot about that.”</p><p>“Shh--and no quoting.” Eliot whispered back, settling his hand over Quentin’s. Stroking his thumb over the back of his hand, quieting.</p><p>Quentin shook his head, settled more into his side.</p><p>Eliot started slow, just playing with Quentin’s hair a bit, running the ends over his fingertips absently. It was unfair that he had not a single split end for all that he positively ravaged his hair with a towel when it was wet. That got him nothing really, except Quentin cocking his head at him while Eliot just kept his eyes on the screen for the sword fight at the Cliffs of Insanity.</p><p>He <em> did </em> hitch his breath when Eliot rubbed the pad of his thumb across Quentin’s ear, over the delicate span of his lobe over and over again. The link rattled between the cuffs as he drew his hands a bit more tightly against his stomach. Eliot patted those hands again, continuing his methodical, slow <em> slow </em> campaign.</p><p><em> “El.” </em>Quentin shuddered against him later, when he slipped his hand under the neckline of Quentin’s stretched out t-shirt and just left it there.</p><p>“Shh.” Eliot pressed into the side of Quentin’s head, into his hair. He turned back to the screen, hand leaving Quentin’s own in his lap to snake under the blanket, rest on his slightly shaking knee. And yes, he did immensely enjoy how he could palm the entirety of the joint there, his fingers curling over the edge, pressing into the give of his thigh there. “Good boy.”</p><p>Quentin sighed, kept his own hands there in his lap while Eliot pawed at him. And now, really <em> Eliot </em> was mostly paying attention to Quentin’s labored breathing, the way his exhales stuttered a bit when his hand inched its way towards his upper thigh. Not to be outdone, his other hand made a thorough exploration of that patch of hair between Quentin’s pecs. Eliot had been blessed with long limbs--Quentin helped him out, pressed so closely to his side it was like they would knit together at some point.</p><p>His chest rose and fell under Eliot’s hand. That rabbit fast pulse of his heart right <em> there </em>.</p><p>Eliot loved this--stretching everything out so much that every little touch felt like an accomplishment of its own. He was halfway hard just from Quentin’s little movements beside him and the <em> knowledge </em> that he’d been good for Eliot. That there was a secret resting inside of Quentin nudging at him constantly. All while he was trying so hard to sit there and actually <em> watch the movie. </em></p><p>Quentin whined when Eliot finally made contact with his erection, pressed over the flannel of his pajamas. There, where he was tenting his pants, where he fit perfectly into Eliot’s hand, too. He stroked gently, just the backs of his fingers up and down the underside where Quentin’s dick was apparently trying to make an escape via the drawstring waistband of his pants.</p><p>“Mmm--Eliot, I’m gonna. Um. You should probably stop. I’m gonna--unless, uh, <em> jesus.” </em>Quentin’s hips pressed up into his hand. Eliot clamped his arm down over his shoulder.</p><p>“You’re fine.” Eliot muttered into his hair, finally taking his eyes off the screen. “Not yet.”</p><p>Quentin was <em> wrecked. </em> His lip was pulled tightly between his teeth--cheeks poppy red, ready to throw himself down the hill after Westley. Tumble all the way down--or rather, pop off completely in his pants.</p><p>He shook his head. Eliot retreated, pressed his hand heavy to Quentin’s upper thigh and rubbed him here. Quieting. Quentin sighed in relief, untensing somewhat. Eliot began to wonder if he could root out the mark he’d sucked into Quentin’s upper thigh just by touch--play hot or cold via the sounds Quentin made when he pressed into it. He was just so sensitive. Too everything.</p><p>“What are you thinking of?” Eliot asked, pitching his voice quiet.</p><p>“ohmygod.” Quentin shook his head. “El, if you don’t want me to come--not the way to go.”</p><p>“Come on,” Eliot whispered back, ran his thumb back and forth over Quentin’s nipple under his shirt. “It’s okay--tell me.”</p><p>Quentin shook his head, let out a whimper-- “The blanket and your <em> hands.” </em></p><p>“You like my hands on you.” Eliot said. Quentin nodded.</p><p>On screen, Westley was dead or at least <em> mostly dead. </em></p><p>“Um--it’s like, I want you to touch me so badly but we can’t. And I can never stay quiet when you do this.” Quentin whispered, pressing his face into Eliot’s chest, his linked hands clasped over Eliot’s thigh. He was all twisted up.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Quentin took three long breaths-- “Because they’ll know and you’re not supposed to um, <em> do this </em> when--when.”</p><p>
  <em> We can’t-- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They’ll know-- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Can never stay quiet-- </em>
</p><p>It was a leap--a risk, but when Eliot said it: “When there’s someone else on the couch with us.”</p><p>Quentin nodded into his chest, holding his breath.</p><p>
  <em> Holy fuck. </em>
</p><p>Eliot could--he could work with that.</p><p>“It’s okay, Q. Movie’s loud enough.” Eliot rubbed his thigh. Pulled him away from his chest, looking at him deep in the eyes. He kissed Quentin, a quick peck, the kind of kiss that was the most you could get away with in public without someone turning their head--or, you know, if you were having people over and didn’t want to completely gross them out. “No one will know, my hand’s under the blanket.” He whispered the words directly into his ear, hitched his leg up on the coffee table so that his bent knee would block anyone’s casual view. “See--it’s dark.”</p><p>Quentin shook his head, eyes pleading with him to do <em> something. </em></p><p>Eliot pulled him back against the couch, gently uncurled Quentin’s hands from his leg and returned his own hand to the warm stretch of Quentin’s tights for all that they were pressed impossibly close together. Now he just needed the perfect name to drop--familiar, plausible but not so prudish that they’d be disgusted to look over and <em> actually see </em> what was happening. They might even want to <em> join in. </em>Appreciate it.</p><p>“Baby--it’s just <em> Margo. </em> She’s fine.” Eliot whispered. Quentin hissed but Eliot he <em> knew, </em> knew Quentin now. In his little tells. He was turned on. Quentin’s shoulders rose up to his ears, Eliot pressed a kiss into his cheek, long and lingering, pulled his hand from Quentin’s shirt long enough to guide his head to Eliot’s shoulder. So he’d be out of the way if there really <em> were </em> someone on the other end of the couch, all they’d see was two men chastely cuddling, all warm and wrapped up.</p><p>“Okay. Okay.” Quentin muttered back.</p><p>This was <em> incendiary. </em>Kudos to Coldwater, drumming up something Eliot hadn’t been anticipating.</p><p>Eliot kept his hand over Quentin’s shirt, pressing him firmly back to the couch, fingers splayed. Possessive. Quentin wriggled. Then abruptly stopped himself.</p><p>He keened a little whine at the moment that Eliot pressed his hand back over Quentin’s erection, keeping his motions small, controlled. Careful. Discreet. </p><p>Now if he could just--<em> there </em> , Eliot dropped his other, unbent leg from the coffee table, bad leg and all he wedged his foot between Quentin’s and hooked with his ankle, pulling until those legs finally opened and Eliot used that leverage to keep it that way. So he could slide his hand down deeper between Quentin’s legs, past his drawn up balls until his hand was pressed tightly to the couch cushion, wrist bent awkwardly. But if he pressed <em> up </em> with his fingers he could nudge at the plug.</p><p>Quentin jolted against him. Raised his hands to his mouth and then realized they were bound together and <em> that would definitely be noticed </em> if Margo was sitting there, wiggling her toes under Eliot’s thigh and sexually objectifying Andre the Giant. He slammed his hands back into his lap. Eliot let out a helpful fake cough and pressed a helpful hand over Quentin’s mouth to keep him quiet.</p><p>The other man somehow tensed and <em> relaxed </em> against Eliot at the same time. Grateful his outburst had gone hopefully unnoticed by their imaginary guest, but between his legs, he was all potential energy while Eliot prodded at him. Right where he’d opened himself up earlier. Probably as quickly as possible, on his belly, hand curled up behind himself.</p><p>Eliot let out a mock-surprised sound, a sound of discovery--</p><p>“What’s this? <em> Naughty boy.” </em>A growl. Quentin’s legs struggled to close, but he wiggled against Eliot, pressing his chest more to the couch, opening. “Can’t believe I’m so lucky, peach. What a sweet little surprise.” Eliot pressed once, twice, three times; long and grinding. “When did you do this?” he lifted his hand from Quentin’s mouth, waiting.</p><p>Huffing little breaths and then, “While you--when you and M-Margo went to get the pizza. E-earlier. Do you like it?”</p><p>“<em> Love it </em> --you’ve been sitting here like this for <em> hours </em> keeping this secret.” Eliot whispered back, kissed him on the crown of his head. His hand crept back up towards his cock--he could <em> feel </em> the wet spot Quentin had leaked through his underwear and pants. “You’re so hot for me--all the time. Even when we have company.”</p><p>And fuck it if he wasn’t gonna frame this as <em> them </em> having company--not a clandestine meeting of three single people for a movie night.</p><p>Quentin nodded shyly into his shoulder, whining and twisting against Eliot, breathing heavy through his nose.</p><p>Eliot stroked him more firmly through his pants--”Stay quiet for me, peach. Don’t want to ruin the end of the movie for Margo.” Quentin’s hips rocked minutely against the couch now, pressing against the plug inside him.</p><p><em> One fine day </em> , one day soon, Eliot was finally going to fuck Quentin and then do <em> this, get </em>him in his lap and just watch him rock and writhe until they both came.</p><p>“Ah-ah-ah.” Quentin’s mouth dropped open and then slammed shut with a click. Eliot fake yawned.</p><p>Under the blanket it was all trapped heat and friction. Eliot’s thumb found the head of his dick, peeking out shyly from his pants. It must have been all candy pink and glossy now. Eliot made a study of it, gently pressing into where he was leaking steadily, spreading the slickness he found there around and around.</p><p>“Eliot--<em> close.” </em> Quentin panted.</p><p>“Shh--I think she knows, Q.”</p><p>Under his hand, Quentin’s dick pulsed wildly and his knees rose and fell several inches--a strangled sound broke from his throat. If there <em> were </em> someone there, that would have done it.</p><p>“Sorry--I’m sorry.” Quentin kept his voice still so quiet. Apologizing to <em> Eliot. </em>But not who was in the room in his little fantasy.</p><p>“It’s okay, peach.” Eliot said, hand curling possessively in Quentin’s t-shirt. “You just want it so badly all the time. Can’t help yourself.” And Quentin <em> nodded, agreeing. </em>  “I think--I think she likes it. She’s looking at us.”</p><p>Quentin let out a tortured noise.</p><p>“Green.”</p><p>He said it before Eliot could even check in on him--he was so <em> into this. </em></p><p>And Eliot had gotten over his biphobia <em> years ago </em> so when he said, “She’s pressing her knees together. Her nipples are all hard through her top, Q.” and Quentin practically jackknifed at the mere mention of breasts, Eliot was left with the satisfaction of hitting the nail on the head, instead of the ashy taste of jealous worry that given the chance, Quentin would take any available exit from this if it involved pussy.</p><p>“R-really?” Quentin moaned, hips moving in neat little circles under Eliot’s hand. He was doing most of the work now. Eliot just kept a hand on him, warm pressure and something to fuck up against.</p><p>“You’re so sexy, Q.” Eliot said, nodding. </p><p>This was <em> straight </em> out of an old playbook. <em> Only, </em> Eliot had usually been on the opposite side of the couch, swooping in at an opportune moment once they’d deemed the guy to be cool enough with Eliot joining them. Showing him how good Eliot could suck their dick--fuck him given the opportunity.</p><p>“You wanna make her feel good? After--after you come in your pants for me.” Eliot asked. He didn’t need to see Quentin’s face to know he was biting his lip. Nodding. Shaking. Hell, <em> Eliot </em>was feeling flustered.</p><p>“I want to--can I um--go down on her?” Quentin asked, voice high and strained, genuinely waiting for <em> permission </em> from Eliot.</p><p>“Yeah peach, wanna see you make Bambi come. You’re so good with your mouth--gonna show you off.” Eliot thumbed over his nipples through his shirt now, pretense gone that this was a secret thing they were doing. Something about it--Quentin uncoiled until his head was back against the couch now, exposing the long line of his throat, peppered with marks Eliot had already left there. Light stubble. The sweet hill of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.</p><p>If Quentin ate pussy with the same fervor of his blowjobs it would be a <em> show. </em>One that deserved full lights and Eliot sitting back with a cocktail, just appreciating it.</p><p>“I want--want her to <em> see. </em>Make you come, too. Can I? Can I blow you?” Quentin’s hips were jerky now, pressing back and forth between the couch and Eliot’s hand. Hitching little gasps kept pouring out of him.</p><p>“Baby--you sure? Your mouth’s gonna be all sore and red tomorrow.” Eliot voiced, concerned. “Sure you can take it?”</p><p>“Yea-yeah. Yes. Please. <em> Let me. </em> It’s so good--so big. You taste so good.” Too loud now for <em> any </em> illusion that he hadn’t been discovered now. He hitched a loud whine, grinding up hard over and over, <em> “Eliot!” </em> he came with a cry of his name, body bowing against Eliot all tension. Then--shaking and moaning so <em> loudly, </em>louder than he had really done before.</p><p>Eliot pulled him close, tucked him into the curve of his body as he panted, recovering. Held up his hand covered in white streaks, knowing what he wanted, but Quentin shook his head quickly--ah yes, there was someone <em> here. </em>And Quentin was a nervous little thing about letting people see just how slutty he could be sometimes (like, all the time).</p><p>So Eliot licked his own hand clean and Quentin let out a broken--heartsick moan at the sight of it. It was honestly more about the performance factor for Eliot than the taste, watching Quentin watch him.</p><p><em> “Eliot.” </em>Quentin scrambled up on his knees, uncoordinated and threw a knee over Eliot’s lap, kept himself up, pressure off his hips, but draped his linked arms around Eliot’s neck to pull him into a kiss. “I need you. Like. Now. Fuck.”</p><p>Discomfort be <em> damned, </em> Eliot was gonna have this. He pulled Quentin bodily down against him, his ass grinding down against Eliot’s erection. Quentin moaned brokenly into his mouth, jostling the plug his prostate with his every jerky little move against him.</p><p>Eliot worked Quentin over in his lap, pressing him up and down with his hands clamped on Quentin’s narrow hips, using the leverage of his leg up on the table to rock <em> up </em> to meet him. It was a pantomime of what it would really be like when Eliot finally fucked him. And despite the fact that Quentin had <em> just come, </em> he was letting out these pained little moans at every contact their bodies made against each other, like he really <em> was </em>taking Eliot’s dick.</p><p>“Want you to fuck me--Eliot.” Quentin moaned in the quiet of the apartment, over the low music of the DVD menu screen--the movie long since finished. “I <em> want it. </em>It’s so big--but I need you to fuck me. Please.”</p><p>Quentin had his hands on the back of the couch, pulling himself along, bouncing up and down on Eliot. His biceps flexing where Eliot’s head was cradled between them.</p><p>“I can’t wait, baby.” Eliot said, one particularly hard thrust against Quentin nearly sent him over the side, off his lap. “Just thinking about it--you were just born to be fucked Quentin.”</p><p>Quentin moaned, nodding. In the haze of their bodies moving together, Eliot could feel him, still somewhat hard when their bodies connected. “Yeah--fuck me. <em> Please, honey.” </em></p><p>And that pushed him over the edge, hands on Quentin’s hips, grinding him down <em> hard </em> across Eliot’s lap, legs spread wide to cross the latitude of Eliot’s thighs. He came, his body thrusting over and over against Quentin wishing it were <em> inside </em> the tight heat of him. Quentin’s lips pressed over his, moaning and biting at him. Quentin’s tongue swept into his mouth with just pure ownership and Eliot just <em> relented </em> to the onslaught of it as his body rode out the aftershocks of rippling pleasure.</p><p>His hands were so tightly clasped to Quentin’s hips--he’d likely have some bruises come morning, lovely little purple marks banded around his middle. Eliot stroked him there absently, petting away the hurt.</p><p>Quentin pulled away, not resting on him fully now, using his knees to take some of the pressure away--always so considerate.</p><p>Quentin burst out laughing--a great big belly laugh that shook his shoulders and brought tears to his eyes. The dimples on his cheeks coming out in full force.</p><p>“Nothing would make her <em> fucking happier </em> than what just happened.” Quentin pulled his bound hands over Eliot’s head and wiped at his face with the back of one. He kissed Eliot, still smiling and kind of chuckling to himself. “That was so fucking hot.”</p><p>He was so warm and <em> open </em> and present in Eliot’s lap. Actually talking. Actually <em> Happy. </em> </p><p>Granted, subspace was its own brand of happy, but it usually resulted in Quentin staring unblinking into nothing with a great big dopey smile on his face while Eliot did everything to keep him that way. Which was <em> spectacular. </em></p><p>Just different.</p><p>“You could have it--” Eliot brushed Quentin’s hair back from his face, pitched his voice low again. “If you wanted. However you want. We could do that for you.”</p><p>Quentin’s eyebrows shot up and Eliot expected him to turn worried or shut it down for being <em> too much. </em>But instead he pressed a fast as lightning, hard kiss to Eliot’s cheek and kind of waggled his hips in Eliot’s lap like an overexcited puppy.</p><p>“Really?” Quentin asked. Eliot nodded, smiling. Giddy with it. “Would you like--order me around? Is she really mean though?”</p><p>“We could--” Eliot kept his hand there, on the back of Quentin’s head in his hair. “We don’t have to--we could just do <em> this in front of her. </em>Or let Margo and I seduce you until you're a little puddle of a man.”</p><p>Quentin let out a happy humming sound, pressed his erection into Eliot’s hips again.</p><p>There was nothing to be done really--except to roll Quentin off his lap, bodily wrestle his pajama pants and underwear down so Eliot could get his mouth on him.</p><p>And that’s how it went. In the dark of the apartment--Quentin panting and chatty, “So good--oh my god. Please! Yes. Your mouth--” when Eliot took him in deep, nose pressed to the wiry hair there at the base. He worked a hand between Quentin’s legs and played with the plug nestled deep inside him.</p><p>It didn’t take long, for Quentin to warn him, “Eliot <em> I’m gonna come-- </em> your mouth is so fucking good. I wanna.”</p><p>Eliot hummed and pulled at the plug, working it out from the tight furl between Quentin’s sturdy, hairy thighs, fucked it back in, aiming <em> up. </em></p><p>Quentin came in his mouth, slapping his hands over the one Eliot had on Quentin’s belly, holding on through the pulses of it. He’d barely finished before he was trying to haul Eliot up towards his chest, gasping and laughing again at how he was somewhat restricted by the bonds he was in. Eliot let himself be pulled, met Quentin there with a grin on his face and tenderness blooming in his heart.</p><p>Quentin licked the taste of himself from Eliot’s mouth until they were both just <em> spent, </em>Eliot laying bodily on top of Quentin, incredibly aware of the come drying uncomfortably inside his borrowed sweatpants.</p><p>“I’m gonna keep you.” Eliot told him.</p><p>Quentin let out a punched little shouty laugh, an absolute maniac, “You <em> absolutely </em>couldn’t get rid of me if you tried--seriously.”</p><p><em> Well, </em>when he said it that way.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading. I really do cherish every one of your comments, you have no idea!!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Is this a Kissing Book? (Part 2)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Special thanks to hoko_onchi for giving this chapter a look for me when I was nervous about it. Thanks for steering me along the right path and all your support!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Hey wait!” Eliot turned as Quentin called after him. Rush hour, standing there in the Subway station. Eliot was going one way; to shower, change, and maybe have a bit of a nap since he’d spent most of the night awake and intensely aware of Quentin’s warm body pressed up against him--just </span>
  <em>
    <span>restless. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin was headed to therapy, hair all pulled back, looking smart for a meeting later that day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now though, they were clearly blocking the path of many New Yorkers standing there at the junction where the hallway split left and right to other platforms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um--” Quentin muttered to himself, pressing up on his tiptoes and then kissed Eliot on the cheek while he was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>standing </span>
  </em>
  <span>there dozy and a bit dumbfounded. “Just--</span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span> for everything this weekend. I mean it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Quentin slipped into the crowd, the black of his wool coat instantly blending into the sea of people around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Eliot, well. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot </span>
  </em>
  <span>just had to stand there for a moment and collect himself--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin Coldwater,</span>
  <em>
    <span> always a surprise.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But then someone knocked into his shoulder, probably not an accident, and he knew he had to get a move on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot transferred to his other train, listening to more of Quentin’s book. He really needed to power through it if he wanted to be ready for the party with something to really show for it. It was nice, keeping Quentin there with him on his lonely trip back home, especially after spending nearly a day and a half in each other’s pockets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moved through the next few days somewhat cautiously. Taking it easy--calling a Lyft back to his studio--even if it was stupid expensive--from the Garment District when he was laden with bags--after he’d found a vintage three-piece suit for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>steal</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He did his stretches and rolled out his hips each night while watching Schitt’s Creek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He texted Quentin incessantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because the </span>
  <em>
    <span>book.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The book was </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Eliot had to pick Quentin’s little brain about all of it, all the time, about things that even weren’t about anything to do with his project. About the mermaids, and the creepy fucking fairies he hadn’t even gotten to in the series, just--everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Quentin, the complete </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucker, </span>
  </em>
  <span>wouldn’t tell him a single thing! Nothing. He kept insisting that Eliot would just have to experience the world as it was laid out for him and that it would diminish the narrative if he were to spoil things.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bullshit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot had questions--the internet had </span>
  <em>
    <span>answers. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lots and lots of them--whole websites and forums where people debated the smallest details of the world that Quentin had created.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then there was Sebastian.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>Now, what could he say about Sebastian? He was a rakish little mother fucker, constantly throwing himself into peril, drinking himself into oblivion, and </span><em><span>he needed to pull his shit together in a major way. </span></em><span>Eliot loved him.</span> <span>And he wasn’t even </span><em><span>in</span></em><span> the book yet!</span></p><p>
  <span>From what he’d read online--there was a lot of debate--the first book in the series wasn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>technically</span>
  </em>
  <span> a romance since Ciaran spent the whole thing going back to Exandria only to learn that everything had somehow changed, and time had reset itself (according to the internet). The once allies of the kingdom were in open war. The magic that had flowed freely through the soil had gone away. No one remembered Sebastian and Ciaran’s reign as kings--they’d never happened. And there was no sign of Sebastian </span>
  <em>
    <span>anywhere.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Not as an old man or a baby or some shit. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Ciaran was mourning him and also hooking up with this guy named Luken--who Eliot called ‘Lunk’ in his head constantly. But they didn’t love each other--not nearly as much as Ciaran </span>
  <em>
    <span>clearly </span>
  </em>
  <span>was yearning for Sebastian. It was all dramatic. And hot. And Eliot hadn’t expected to somehow catch feelings about the book but--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot texted Quentin once he’d finished </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Time, Consuming’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>at around 1a.m.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>“E: Motherfucker, if sebastian is this asshole ‘raven king’ everyone keeps mentioning, i’m going to freak the fuck out. What the fuck? Where is he???????”</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Q: :I”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <b>E: I'm taking this out on your ass. Jkjk but yes actually for real. Justice for sebastian. He sounds like trash--we love him.”</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot got nothing back and thus resigned himself to having to actually listen to the rest of the books to find out--the internet wouldn’t tell him as nicely as Quentin could in his writing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Eliot listened constantly while he worked on yet more boring ass tailoring and a few emergency repairs that one of the opera companies had sent over. Apparently there had been some kind of incident with a child and a rogue pair of scissors backstage?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>During all of this listening and sewing and general mooning over Quentin and his apparent genius because </span>
  <em>
    <span>really--</span>
  </em>
  <span>he wrote that first book when he was 20? What the fuck?--that Eliot began to notice a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pattern</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was in the words Quentin used to talk about Sebastian as he set out in book two with nothing more than a single clue to find him. Ciaran began to recall things about their marriage like the little way his heart would thump in his chest when Sebastian brought him something down easily from a high shelf. The way in which Ciaran missed Sebastian’s casual intimacy--always touching him, keeping him close at hand. How he was kind of a lush, but it was somehow endlessly charming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Wednesday morning, all of a sudden, there he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was in chapter 7. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sebastian--every inch the man he’d appeared to be all those years ago but </span>
  <em>
    <span>just so off somehow.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>the absolute worst.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Refusing to believe anything Ciaran told him about his </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> journey to get there. Angry at even the reminder of those happy memories they’d shared. Drunken, arrogant, often hostile in his humor. Robbed of his kingdom. Tortured by impossible memories of a life he hadn’t ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>really lived.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>He was deceptively cheerful there, stumbling before Ciaran, mouth quipping while his eyes told a different story--one of longing and wasted potential. But the rest of him--his face; strong nose, dimpled chin, wickedly curved mouth, high-sharp cheekbones, deep eyes, expressive brows, and a wild mane of glossy blackbrown hair falling over his brow. It was everything that he’d remembered from a lifetime ago. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And then Sebastian threw up all over his shoes.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot stopped, clutching his hand around the pair of fabric shears he held.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huh--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well that seemed--oddly familiar and </span>
  <em>
    <span>specific.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot kept listening, barely working. Sorting absently through his button box at his little desk--hid heart pounding, stomach lurching. And Quentin’s voice was the one who spoke of Ciaran dealing with the fact that the love of his life was apparently now some drunk asshole who didn’t care if the kingdom burned. Who didn’t care about </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Like at all?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Things aren’t usually worth caring about--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>What an asshole</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>What an absolute waste of breath and space. What a </span>
  <em>
    <span>coward.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well--Dear Ciaran, what you don’t seem to understand is this, why bother to save a kingdom that doesn’t even make its own wine?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>hated</span>
  </em>
  <span> this guy. With all of his peacocking through every chapter--how he only showed Ciaran </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> romantic affection when it served his own interests or when they’d escaped some danger. How he just wouldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>admit</span>
  </em>
  <span> that he was a scared, sad boy who was running from a good, true man who </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He kissed Ciaran, while their blood still ran hot in their bodies. While they still had their lives. While he could. And Ciaran was glad to have any part of him, even if it was just this--even if tomorrow they wouldn’t mention it. He kissed Sebastian back.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>This was kind of fucked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ciaran watched him then, now standing on a table in some backwoods town, sloshing his drink around as he led everyone in a bawdy song. Why didn’t he realize that he could be </span>
  </em>
  <span>leading</span>
  <em>
    <span> them with a speech to lift their spirits--earn their favor as their king? Instead he seemed more keen to spend his evening in the bed of the blacksmith or the horse barn--again.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And sad.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“When they’d married so long ago, there had been snowdrops everywhere. On every table. Crowned upon every woman and child--pinned to their simple clothes. Ciaran looked to Sebastian for any recognition--any inkling that he felt anything as they passed a massive, overflowing field of snowdrops in the countryside. Nothing. The other man simply drew his flask, dark curls shining in the sunlight as he took a swig. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ciaran missed him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Even if he was right there.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>--Eliot, knew it. He just did. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sebastian.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>With his looks. His manners. The way he’d tried to make it look like he never gave a fuck about anything. That was Eliot. That was Sebastian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It just. </span>
  <em>
    <span>it made sense.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It did--Quentin was mining him for experience or whatever for his new book--Eliot just </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it this time. Jesus--he’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>so fucking stupid.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart was beating so loudly in his ears--it was like, it was like he was hearing some second-hand version of his own antics the morning after an epic in his early twenties. Too drawn and nauseous to even feel a bit of anything other than squeaky </span>
  <em>
    <span>shame. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Book 1--</span>
  </em>
  <span> book 1 had come out 7 years ago. The launch party. Their meeting. Eliot’s sudden departure in the arms of a New York Times critic with webbed feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But book 2--the book that Sebastian finally appeared in--Eliot checked the Amazon description, it had come out just a year after the first. The rest of the series came in quick succession, until the last book, which had taken Quentin more than two years to finish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> And wasn’t it strange that the books slowed down right around the time that Eliot had been somewhat reformed and absent?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which meant, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>possible. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hell no, it was fucking so likely that Quentin had written all of those books to the hilarious tune of Eliot’s shit storm of a life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or at least--what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw of it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Not the part where Eliot had carved himself out a career, become a sought after professional or anything like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, Eliot was just a party boy with a recreational drug habit to Quentin--clearly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had Quentin sat there in a bar with him and Margo, watching them hold court--watching Eliot stumble off to receive a lackluster handjob so he could sweep back in moments later a little higher and happier than he’d been before? Had he sat there and thought, ‘well, that’s fucking pathetic--It’s going in the book’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just--all the times they’d stumbled out of some place at last call and Eliot had held onto Quentin like he needed the support when he really just wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>hold </span>
  </em>
  <span>just a little piece of Quentin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was there a chapter where Sebastian tried to take all his clothes off in VIP?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or </span>
  </em>
  <span>tried to jump from a moving carriage because he’d seen his dealer on the street and was running low on provisions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What about some deep emotional scene where a character with Margo’s face sat with Sebastian on the floor of some disgusting bathroom while he cried about all the shame he </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> somehow carried around in him? The stuff he </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> talked about for lack of wanting to make it real. Quentin had certainly opened a door to that once and then slipped out with an ‘Oh shit! Sorry--’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who even </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>that? Who wanted to be around someone like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Love someone who clearly wasn’t anything other than a self-destructive waste of potential--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That wasn’t him </span>
  <em>
    <span>now. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It--wasn’t. Eliot wasn’t perfect and he owned too many sex toys to be a saint. He had </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought</span>
  </em>
  <span> that maybe with age and with realizing that trying to make himself feel numb and happy all the time just made him empty and </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the comedown--maybe he’d be worthy of Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But how could Quentin look at him now and now see </span>
  <em>
    <span>before?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot couldn’t even listen when the two of them finally came together in the single cold bed they’d been forced to share so they wouldn’t freeze in the night. Not when it was Quentin’s voice describing how it felt so familiar yet so different to be held in Sebastian’s strong, sure hands when they’d never actually made love in this timeline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to take out his AirPods and go out to the fire escape, sit there on the steps and smoke about three cigarettes right after the other until his hands would stop shaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--and was this what Quentin had </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought </span>
  </em>
  <span>of him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was pretty damning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were only so many similarities that Eliot could </span>
  <em>
    <span>overlook.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, his fabulous outfit. Ability to charm the pants off of anyone regardless of gender. All of the ways in which he’d avoided responsibility at all costs. Hair. Hair. Hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It added up to one simple fact:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was using him--keeping him around for whatever he could get from Eliot. Acting like he cared about Eliot any more than just some man or woman Quentin could have picked up anywhere in the city. Because, why now? Seriously--Eliot had been so much easier to get just even three years ago. It wouldn’t have taken any more than a </span>
  <em>
    <span>look </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Eliot would have taken him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did he have to make Eliot hope at all that maybe this was different?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually he made his way off the fire escape and back into the studio, slow, like he was composed of pieces that weren’t made to work together properly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then--Quentin was </span>
  <em>
    <span>there, </span>
  </em>
  <span>forcing open the giant door to the studio, waving a hand to Penny as they passed down to his and Kady’s space down the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Illuminated by the golden late afternoon light--</span>
  <em>
    <span>magic hour</span>
  </em>
  <span>--with a soft little grin on his face and a, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> bouncing up and down on his toes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot felt drained at the sight of Quentin. Wrinkled around the edges in a way he couldn’t press away by straightening his posture and putting on the charm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’m early--” Quentin took off his coat and threw it over the rung on the ladder by the door, pushing up the sleeves of his cozy little grey sweater. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked so </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span> and comfortable. Here for Eliot to fit him for his suit for the launch party--his fucking surprise hung up on a hook by the small bathroom where Eliot used to wash his hair in the sink. He was here so they could </span>
  <em>
    <span>hang out, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so Eliot could take him out to tapas and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> fuck him. Quentin probably was just going along with it, figuring that Eliot would break--like he always did and they’d end up tumbling back into his apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t think you’d mind. I can work a bit if you--” Quentin stopped, dropping his bag onto the table across from where Eliot was standing with his palms outstretched on its surface because it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>the only</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing keeping him standing. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up. You should sit down--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he was coming around the corner, with his hands outstretched to probably pet over him with worry and it was all just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>fake</span>
  </em>
  <span> now that he could see it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I Sebastian?” Eliot blurted out, taking a step back. Quentin abruptly stopped, hands still out but he closed them and opened them reflexively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorted-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>“No.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot.” Quentin laughed and shook his head. “Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>feeling</span>
  </em>
  <span> okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot took a deep breath, “Tell me the truth, Quentin. Am I Sebastian? And please don’t give me the ‘any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental’ bullshit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin blinked at him, took a step back and shook his head. “You’re kidding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot shakily lit another cigarette and marched right past Quentin to the still open window. “I’m not doing my stupid dance for you for once. Just--should I tell you now about my childhood trauma for your new book now or are you just going to infer it? I mean--just do me a favor and take me off your press list? I don’t need any more literal proof of my </span>
  <em>
    <span>deep</span>
  </em>
  <span> character flaws. Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was blinking rapidly, pressed a hand to his temple. He looked stricken. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Even if some part of Eliot wanted to laugh it off like he did all the time--turn it into some anecdote he could use at parties-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah--I’m so damaged and my dick’s so big that someone wrote a book about it.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliot--you, you’re fucking with me. What the fuck? You can’t be serious.” Quentin shook his head at him but stayed where he was--across the room. Good. That was good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know how to say it any other way. You could at least respect me enough to be honest with me.” Eliot tried to keep himself from sounding </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> much like he cared. That this wasn’t blowing away every single gossamer thin thread of </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’d had that maybe Quentin felt the same way for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abruptly, Quentin went very still. “Jesus Christ. I can’t believe this is actually happening.” Voice steady, hollow. He leaned against the edge of the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot tapped his toe, flicked his cigarette out the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could have warned me--you know? Or at least reached out at some point and </span>
  <em>
    <span>asked</span>
  </em>
  <span> me how exactly I would go about being the world’s biggest asshole. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh wait</span>
  </em>
  <span> you had enough evidence, didn’t you? Is that why you hung around all the time, with Margo and I? Did you go home and write about it? Keep a little stack of notecards with all the messy, slutty things I did to pepper throughout your book?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my God!” Quentin shouted--actually shouted. He ran his hands through his hair roughly. “Eliot I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>base</span>
  </em>
  <span> any fucking character in my book after you! Are you that self obsessed?” He kept trying to push his sleeves up--only to discover they already were. Nervous. Fidgeting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like me to read any of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>many</span>
  </em>
  <span> passages in which you describe me and my every idiosyncrasy?” Eliot shot back. Shouted really. And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hated</span>
  </em>
  <span> that this had made him lose his calculated indifference. He didn’t need to give Quentin this too. “Because it was pretty damning about the tenth time you talked about Sebastian fucking his way across the continent with his spectacular cock. Or his frankly ridiculous raven feather mantle--</span>
  <em>
    <span>which I’m pissed I don’t own.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin--he looks exactly like me. He’s a fucking disaster--is that, is that what you thought of me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin looked more and more like a turtle as Eliot spoke, his shoulders drawing further and further in, retreating back. He set his hands on his hips and blinked up at the ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay--I will admit that there’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>similarity.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin said, softer now. Eliot clutched the edge of the window so that he wouldn’t do something pathetic like pull Quentin into his arms and tell him that everything was okay. “But--Eliot. That just </span>
  <em>
    <span>happens</span>
  </em>
  <span> sometimes. There’s little pieces of </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> in my books. Um--it’s probably lazy fucking writing. But, I didn’t--El, I’d already drafted half of that book before I even </span>
  <em>
    <span>met</span>
  </em>
  <span> you. Years before. I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>notes!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Quentin swallowed harshly and shook his head, “Fuck--okay, I’m just going to fucking tell you so </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> you choose to believe me--I’d been working on that draft for like </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span> before we met. Hadn’t worked on it at all for like 6 months before I met you at that party.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well--I’m happy I could lend some inspiration. Do I get casting approval on him--for the show?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--you’re such an asshole.” Quentin spat at him. “I can’t believe I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> telling you this like you’ll care but I was in a fucking mental institution right before that party--you were the fucking least of my concerns.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot. I really don’t. Are you like, trying to--if you don’t want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be</span>
  </em>
  <span> with me you don’t have to do it this way!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like Quentin had </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> idea how much Eliot wanted to be with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quentin--we’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>together.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You made that pretty clear. This is just </span>
  <em>
    <span>research</span>
  </em>
  <span> for your new book.” Eliot said. His cigarette had long since burned down to the filter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god. I can’t believe this is actually happening to me. You have no clue--” Quentin said to himself. Shaking himself. Shockingly, he wasn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>crying.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He looked too shocked by this whole conversation. “Fucking--’Black Moment’. What the fuck? I have to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot narrowed his eyes, at Quentin quickly gathering his bag--walking to the door. Stopping to gather his coat and button it up to his neck for some reason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you talking about--what’s a ‘Black Moment’?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why was Eliot even calling after him? What was the point?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin slung his bag over his shoulder and glared at him-- “Look it the fuck up, Eliot! Clearly, you don’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> about my writing</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot stood there, in the cold breeze blowing in from the window as Quentin dragged the door back open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And don’t worry--the next book, the guy is nothing like you--he’s not actively trying to sabotage himself at every turn.” Quentin spat at him. “He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>clearly</span>
  </em>
  <span> more worth my time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he was gone, not bothering to close the door after him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Penny and Kady were stood there in the hallway, slack jawed with a bag of Quick-Concrete on the ground at their feet. Kady shook her head at him, lips a firm line on her face and then she was running after Quentin--shouting after him down the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>man?” Penny looked just </span>
  <em>
    <span>disgusted</span>
  </em>
  <span> with Eliot. He shook his head and threw the heavy, dusty bag on the floor over his shoulder and walked away, rolling his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Margo let herself into his apartment that night, not because the door was unlocked, but instead with the master key she had to every apartment in the building. Which was--just too much power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot looked up absently from his place on the floor, back against the wall where he’d been for the last hour. Ostensibly because there he’d wanted to smoke a joint without his whole apartment smelling like a college dorm, but then he just hadn’t gotten back up once he’d made it to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want a drink?” Eliot called out to her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was sitting in the dark. When she threw the light switch he actually recoiled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck is wrong with you, Eliot?” Margo’s voice was cold and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> making herself at home. Not putting down her purse, slipping off her shoes or her bra. She stood there in the doorway to his apartment with her keys in hand, glaring at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot hissed, his glass joints protesting when he scraped himself off the floor and walked to the bar cart by the couch. “I think a martini sounds good.” There was already ice in the silver bucket--probably should be in a pack pressed against where he was smarting and tender. Instead, Eliot scooped some out into a shaker and set about measuring out gin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She closed the door, pressed her back to it from across the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quentin is--he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’s too fucking good for his own good. Double fucking good. And you--” Margo hissed at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I called him out for profiting off of me for basically his whole career.” Eliot shrugged. God, every movement of his body felt like it was tearing something. “You could have told me, or were you too busy getting off to it and telling me to back off of him? Was it because you knew if I fucked him and screwed everything up you’d lose your paycheck?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright--” She marched over, hauled him down by a tiny fist in his open shirt, until they were eye to eye. “You’re a messy bitch, Eliot but you’re not usually this stupid.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot blinked at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a long time since she’d done this, given it to him straight because he’d fucked up badly enough to deserve it. It had been years, she’d crawled into his hospital bed while he was still delirious and concussed, pointed a finger in his face and told him in no uncertain terms that he was getting </span>
  <em>
    <span>clean</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Motherfucker--you’ve had some fucking ‘live fast, die young’ mentality since we met. That ends now.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Now she pointed that same finger in his face, “Don’t fuck this up with Quentin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot pulled against her resistance, standing back up to his full height. She wasn’t stronger than he was. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Physically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why couldn’t you have just left me alone?” Eliot pulled her hand from him, a careful application of pressure of his hand on her wrist. Not wrenching away from her. He didn’t want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span> his Bambi. Freed, he threw the cap onto the shaker and the ice rattled inside the silver shaker in a familiar rhythm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo’s eyebrows drew together. “Eliot--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot poured what he now realized was just ice-cold gin into a glass. Any port in a storm. “I was. I was better off not knowing that my fucked up life made for much more entertainment to the masses than it was to actually live through it. He fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>used me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Margo. And you had to know--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo shook her head at him, sad. Disappointed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliot, he didn’t. You need to take a fucking minute. Take a breath. Think about what you’re saying here. Is Quentin--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Quentin Coldwater</span>
  </em>
  <span> that kind of a manipulative asshole? He’s not. You know he isn’t--he’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mike.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot nearly gagged around a mouthful of gin, fought through and swallowed it down. The burn of it down his throat was good--it was. Reminded him how angry he was about all of this. If he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry</span>
  </em>
  <span> he couldn’t feel so much like he was going to burst into tears at any moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face must have done </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the mere mention of his name because Margo was trying to pry the glass from his hand, pull him towards the couch. Eliot trailed after her, all of him one big ball of pain from his hips to the tension headache behind his eyeballs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, no way was Quentin </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> like Mike. He wasn’t--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He surely cared about Eliot in </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> way--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t capable of what Mike had done--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jesus, even if it had been four years ago--Eliot still felt nauseous about that night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No--you’re right. Quentin’s good.” Eliot’s voice cracked. “He’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>cruel.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo nodded, tightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god, did I reverse Mary Sue myself into Quentin’s book?” Eliot asked, needing to put his head between his knees. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo rubbed his back, “Well you saw a hot fucking mess of a man and thought it was a mirror. No one can blame you there--there is a resemblance. But if you actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>finished</span>
  </em>
  <span> the book, you’d fucking see that maybe Sebastian had his </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> bullshit and reasons.” She said, why hadn’t he just asked </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the first place? “Like the fucking seer who told him Ciaran would die if they were crowned kings again together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spoilers!” Eliot popped back up. He threw back the rest of the martini where it was sitting on the table. “Are you serious? That’s it? That’s why? The whole time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah--” Margo nodded, “Much more eloquently and with a lot less clothing on, that's how the conversation goes. He was trying to </span>
  <em>
    <span>protect</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ciaran. In his own stupid, misguided, unhealthy way. The guy really </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> kind of a hot moron with a deathwish--but he does care about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ciaran</span>
  </em>
  <span> so of course he’d sacrifice his own happiness if the guy got to live.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Huh--</span>
  </em>
  <span>that was a good twist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head, “I fuck everything up. Everything. That I do. That I touch--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up.” Margo said, holding his face between both her palms. “You fucked </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> up. Not everything. Just this.” She shook him a bit, tapped him maybe a bit too firmly on the cheek in that way of hers. “You just have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fix</span>
  </em>
  <span> this. Because Q’s--he’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>destroyed.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He called me earlier. He wants to pull the plug on the show--get an extension on his next book already. Start over. Cancel the party. All of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But--but he was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>excited.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot shook his head. All of his own manufactured drama cracking under the knowledge that Quentin was putting his </span>
  <em>
    <span>career</span>
  </em>
  <span> at fucking risk because--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he thought he’d hurt Eliot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Eliot had accused him of plagiarizing his life twice over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo nodded, once. Tightly.</span>
</p><p><span>“Right. Brooklyn. Now-</span><em><span>-fix this.</span></em> <em><span>Motherfucker.” </span></em><span>She basically slapped him again on the cheek. His head felt clearer for it.</span></p><p>
  <span>He leaned in, kissed her full on the lips, pulling back with a smack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But change first--I’ll call you a fucking car. You’re all rumpled. Which is--much less endearing in real life than it is in writing.” Margo said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot kissed her again, “If this fucking works out, you--you are getting a surprise at some point. And you can consider the memory of it my gratitude for fucking ever. Because it’ll blow your mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked intrigued, cocking her head to the side. “What is it like a sex thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot smiled, nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo chased him into his closet with a smack to his ass so they could put together the perfect ‘Go get your man’ look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh--and what the fuck is the ‘Black Moment’?” Eliot asked, stripping out of his shirt, throwing it in the direction of the hamper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, probably some stupid writing jargon. Why?” Margo sorted through his tie rack with intensity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something Quentin said,” Eliot waved a hand. “that I should look it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I have someone you can call.” Margo said, “You’ve got like thirty minutes of traffic to sit through--call him in the car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Penny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’ve got to be kidding me.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>RESOLUTION COMING VERY SOON. I PROMISE. Thank you for reading!</p><p>P.S. Yes, I also stole Exandria from Critical Role.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. The Lovers Reunite</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much to Rizandace and hoko_onchi for all of your encouragement and help with this chapter! It was a real wild ride and I couldn't have done it without some serious hand holding from both of you! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was dark. The streets were empty but for a lone figure silhouetted under a streetlamp. A chilled breeze blew a scattering of dried leaves into a small cyclone down an alleyway and then--there was a cry in the darkness.--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Come on, Martin! Just get out of the carrier, I’m like begging you, man.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And he was, and had been for ten minutes. At first, Quentin had just stood there chewing on his thumbnail, staring at the carrier on the ground, grinding his molars down to nothing. He’d waited like Katy told him to. He didn’t try to </span>
  <em>
    <span>force</span>
  </em>
  <span> Martin back out of the carrier or reach inside to pry him out. It was just sitting there, on the ground, with the front hatch open. A few feet away Rupert and Jane were gobbling away at their dinners.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there was no movement from inside the carrier. Nothing. Not even a twitch from Martin. Even after days of him scampering around like a little weirdo on his three legs while Quentin threw toys around his office and practically taking Quentin’s finger off when he’d fed him this morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, he was getting </span>
  <em>
    <span>nowhere.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shuffled over and picked up one end of the carrier, lifted it off the ground a bit; maybe the angle would force the little (huge, rat killer) cat back out into the night where he could be with his family. But Martin just howled and held on with his claws against the side of the carrier, which made Quentin feel like a psycho, so he dropped the carrier back down to the ground and ran a hand through his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really just wanted to go home--alone. Take a long, hot shower, maybe have a good cry, take a sleeping pill, and then somehow move the fuck on the next day. This was yet another God awful event in a day chock-full of them. Well--really just </span>
  <em>
    <span>one. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But it was bad enough that it had taken the day and just thrown a big grey bucket of paint over the whole thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Because it had started so well. </span>
  </em>
  <span>A good morning with a lot of writing at the coffee shop. Then he’d headed into Manhattan so Margo could get him working on signing book plates. So he’d mostly dicked around doing that while Margo filled him in on the latest gossip from 90 Day Fiance. Then he’d headed over to see Eliot, for their definitely not-a-date where they were just going to hang out, get to know each other more. Maybe Quentin had talked to Heather on Monday about the weekend and she’d suggested he actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot that he wanted to keep doing that. She’d said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>she’d said</span>
  </em>
  <span> that it seemed like Eliot at least sounded reasonable enough to have a conversation about really dating--really going for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then--bam. Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>bam. </span>
  </em>
  <span>A full on, rug out from under him, fall down the proverbial stairs of life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot thought Quentin was just using him? Had been using him for their entire friendship?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been impossible to reason with him when it just wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>true.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Still, it had been awful to just stand there while Eliot went on and on about all the ways in which Quentin had fucked him over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the worst part of it was--the part he was struggling with the most was that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he hadn’t even done anything wrong. </span>
  </em>
  <span>For </span>
  <em>
    <span>once. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He couldn’t think of a single instance in which he’d set out to truly hurt Eliot’s feelings or betray him or whatever. His broken anxiety-riddled brain had spun into action but had produced not one remotely plausible explanation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it would have justified just how unbelievably crappy he felt at the moment. Like a penny fused to the sidewalk by a piece of gum, just left there to get stepped on and looked at by passers by who’d think, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>aww man, it even landed right side up’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>as they went on their way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure, there might have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>elements</span>
  </em>
  <span> of his life that bled into his writing (it hadn’t taken anyone long to draw a parallel between Quentin’s protagonist and the writer himself, since Quentin wrote what he knew so he’d written a nervous, sexually ambiguous, lovelorn protagonist), but if anyone should have been pissed with him about it--it should have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>Margo.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Margo, who very clearly was the embodiment of the conquering Fairy Queen, a character had stolen the throne after watching her people suffer for hundreds of years with fewer rights and no respect--who’d siphoned all the magic out of the ground to gain control over a kingdom that had once tried to subjugate her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Margo </span>
  <em>
    <span>did know.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Or at least, she inferred. She had fucking fan art commissioned with her on the Obsidian Throne and </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.</span>
  </em>
  <span> In her words, “This bitch is nothing but a power hungry, no-nonsense, dick slapping, patriarchy toppling </span>
  <em>
    <span>Queen. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And I </span>
  <em>
    <span>love her.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot however,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot hadn’t found it at all flattering. He must not have known about the literally servers full of hot fanart dedicated to Sebastian. And now he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> because he was clearly done with Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seriously--Quentin just needed to make it until daylight tomorrow. Everything was better after a good sleep. Though </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, this might test the actual powers of the Sleep Hypothesis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d call Margo tomorrow in the morning when he’d come back to his senses. Tell her he was just going to let the show go on without him, he really couldn’t stomach the idea of  being any more in control of that world if every time Eliot looked at it, it disgusted him. The new book--that he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> need to consider. Maybe it would just be better to scrap the whole thing and move on to an idea that wasn’t so tainted. And fuck that three day party--if he couldn’t go without looking everywhere and seeing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then just--fuck it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>needed to forget about today.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And maybe call Heather for an emergency appointment.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And maybe do some sad book shopping.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But he couldn’t go home and actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> any of it until he returned Martin back to his colony. He’d finished his antibiotics, Quentin had called the vet earlier and they said he was good to go. His ear hadn’t smelled in days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin got down on the ground, hissing at the uneven asphalt under his knees and looked directly into the carrier. This could easily result in him needing an eyepatch. Martin was all curled around himself in the back corner of the plastic carrier, green eyes flashing in the low light of the abandoned lot. Quentin squinted at him, “They miss you, buddy. You have to go back now--you, uh you’re not mine so it’s time to go home now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin blinked at him, unmoved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huffing, growing impatient for just </span>
  <em>
    <span>one thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> to go right, Quentin pleaded with him, a cat. Martin Catwin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin, seriously. You have to go. I’m begging you--just go back with Jane and Rupert. Have your stupid dinner. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>So I can go </span>
  <em>
    <span>home!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> He would have been ashamed by how broken and tired his voice sounded--but there was no one else out stupid enough to be in a dirty abandoned lot talking to a cat after 8 p.m. “Just go!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>White Fanging’</span>
  </em>
  <span> your cat right now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s heart pulsed his ears so loudly--he spun around on his knees, distantly aware of Jane and Rupert hissing and running off at the movement. His knees shouted at him, little bits of gravel pressed into his jeans along with old, smelly rainwater and who knew what else. Because it had </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> finished raining. He could still smell the staticky scent of thunder in the air--practically felt actual lightning jolt through him and leave one of those scorch marks on the ground where he knelt because--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There was Eliot. </span>
  </em>
  <span>In his overcoat with his cane and </span>
  <em>
    <span>an umbrella over his arm</span>
  </em>
  <span>, out of breath and pink-cheeked. Hair disheveled like he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>run</span>
  </em>
  <span> here. His hand was clenched around the handle of his cane, leaning on it heavily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And talking.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so fucking unbelievably sorry for hurting you. For my overreaction. For just--all of it. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for how I treated you--” Wow, he was really </span>
  <em>
    <span>going for it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hat in hand, so fucking sincere. Quentin could see it now, how it was different when Eliot was sincere, how he got flustered and a little desperate to get all of his feelings out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>speechless.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to do this for the next 60 pages.” Eliot exclaimed with a strained chuckle that had </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do with mirth. “And I wore this </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span> outfit--” He guestured to himself, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was dressed as sharply as ever. Matching navy pants and vest. Burgundy blazer. Probably suspenders too. Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>unfairly hot and overdressed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“--because Margo told me to but, also because one time we were all out, and you said this tie was nice. But when I was in the car--I talked to Penny, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>explained</span>
  </em>
  <span> everything and I should have just </span>
  <em>
    <span>dropped </span>
  </em>
  <span>whatever I was doing to come to you. I shouldn’t have changed. Even if you like the tie. Then my car dropped me off at your apartment and you weren’t there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was having an actual out of body experience right now. Eliot kept saying words, words he understood that were linking into sentences. Sentences that </span>
  <em>
    <span>were not clear</span>
  </em>
  <span> like--at all. In the slightest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Penny--” Quentin said, somehow the only word he could make himself manufacture. Penny--his editor. Why would Penny </span>
  <em>
    <span>help</span>
  </em>
  <span> him after basically offering to murder Eliot for free earlier today? With an </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual bag </span>
  </em>
  <span>of concrete over his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes--and he told me about The Black Moment, or All is Lost, or whatever it is you call it in your outline. When you’re plotting your books.” Eliot spoke quickly. His eyes were liquid and glassy. He was blinking a lot. Quentin began to feel cold all over, tendrils of ice coiling in his belly, at his fingertips. “The part in the book where there’s a betrayal or something tears the main character’s relationship to stupid pieces. Then--I guess they spend the next 60 pages in agony, getting new haircuts, and bettering themselves--that’s ‘The Turning Point’ right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had so many questions. So many they were rattling around in his brain and he couldn’t pick just </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Quentin shivered in his wool coat, not even particularly chilly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why was Eliot catching him up on the structure of a romance novel like this was the first day of his writing intensive?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded. Some kind of deeply unsettling warble would come out of him if he actually opened his mouth to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus, you know, he was still somehow </span>
  <em>
    <span>kneeling </span>
  </em>
  <span>there on the ground by Martin’s carrier. It took a tremendous effort, coordinating his arms and legs to work together to get him to stand. But that felt important, the standing. So he stood up and faced Eliot, feeling even more aware of the space between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck that--I don’t want to do that part. That part sounds like bullshit. And if--if you don’t want me--which I wouldn’t blame you for--then at least I have to tell you how sorry I am. But if you could take me back--we don’t, I don’t need to spend sixty pages or three months in some wallowy montage when I’ve already spent seven years just </span>
  <em>
    <span>infatuated with you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay so if Eliot wanted to blow right by ‘The Turning Point--if he was likening this to one of Quentin’s books then--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot was doing it. He was doing ‘The Lovers Reunite’.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He was still standing some ten feet away from Quentin, one hand on his cane and the other held over his breast. Earlier today, when the shouting and arguing had happened, Eliot had looked brittle and so </span>
  <em>
    <span>righteous</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his pain. Now he was nothing but soft and smudged around the edges, all rounded shoulders and turned-down mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do like it--the tie.” Quentin pointed at it numbly where it peeked out from Eliot’s cashmere overcoat. Mauve with little white flowers picked out in delicate embroidery. He’d gotten close enough to see that each flower had a tiny perfect butter yellow center, once. “Good tie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could someone check him for signs of an </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual </span>
  </em>
  <span>break with reality? Eliot tells him he’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>infatuated </span>
  </em>
  <span>with him through three Olympic games </span>
  <em>
    <span>(and how was that a measure of time)</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Quentin tells him he likes his tie? This was more than ‘Eliot thinks you’re cute, you know.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If this was a movie it would be pouring down rain, with sweeping music and there would be wind blowing through their hair--Quentin would probably get that good heroine lighting treatment. He certainly would have a better line than, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Good tie’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>if Eliot was standing there doing The Big Speech thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s bark of laughter echoed between the apartment buildings around the alleyway. People were living here. All around this abandoned lot behind their little windows and doors. Kids doing homework. Mothers getting a moment of alone time--finally. Dads falling asleep on the couch already. Maybe somewhere nearby, there was a couple fumbling through their first kiss on a doorstep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But </span>
  <em>
    <span>here. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Here Eliot was laughing and wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Because he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>crying.</span>
  </em>
  <span> With hitching breaths and everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quentin--you need to know. I am. I really am so </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It bears repeating.</span>
  <em>
    <span>” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He sounded just </span>
  <em>
    <span>desperately sad</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Quentin wanted to run to him and throw his arms around him and tell him it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But he didn’t because he couldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>move,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he didn’t know if it was going to be okay. “The way I acted today, it was just inexcusable and cruel. I wasn’t--I didn’t feel like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> man for a long time. I, um, I still don’t a lot of the time and what you </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw back then--” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin’s eyes darted down to a white and orange flash on the ground, at Martin weaving around Eliot’s legs, knocking his thick skull against Eliot’s shin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Purring.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot looked down too and shook his head, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Hi Martin--</span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m not proud of my life back then, okay maybe some parts. Parts you didn’t ever really get to see. Because I worked </span>
  <em>
    <span>really fucking hard</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get where I am now--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Quentin said--</span>
  <em>
    <span>alright, now there was another word.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Maybe come Easter there would be a whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>sentence?</span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>Eliot looked up at the sky, like </span><em><span>really, this is the one?</span></em><span> He cleared his throat. “It was super fucking hot to think about a guy who was probably the fantasy of all your bookclubs until I saw a bit too much of myself in him--then it just reminded me that I wasn’t good enough to be with a guy like you, Quentin, for a long fucking time. For </span><em><span>years</span></em><span>. It made me feel like such a moron for believing now that--” Martin pawed at the fine fabric of Eliot’s trousers, meowing pathetically. </span><em><span>“Jesus--” </span></em><span>Eliot bent with a grunt and scooped up all 14 pounds of cat, held him one armed like a real life baby. His hands were just </span><em><span>huge.</span></em> <em><span>And that was a picture.</span></em><span> “Are you done? Not you--fuck, where was I?”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Y-you felt like a moron?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>There he was. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Coming through with a full question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot sniffed, nodded. “I felt like a moron for thinking maybe I was a good enough man for you now--that you’d want me after I’d made such a stupid fool of myself for years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook his head, “I didn’t--I don’t think you’re stupid Eliot. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> did.” A drop of water hit him on the cheek and it took a second to register that it was rain and not a tear, though he could feel them right there in the back of his throat. It was a coin toss if they’d be happy or sad ones. “I thought you were uh, untouchable. Incandescent. Yes, a bit of a mess but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot let out a little high chuckle, “Yeah--me too. I like your mess, I mean. I think you’re just--perfect, Quentin. Mess and all. And not in a ‘To me, you are perfect’ way but in a way where I’m just so fucking shocked all the time that you choose to spend any moment of your life with me. When the whole world should be talking about you and your perfect </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A great big bubble of happiness was welling up inside him--the opposite of all the catastrophizing his somewhat broken did all the time. No, this was a great big feeling of hope. Giddiness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need to know, Q,” Eliot took a deep breath, hitched Martin higher. Martin’s eyes closed sleepily. “No one has ever taken the time to make sure that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> okay. Except Margo. For years. Forever. You did. First thing. The first night we were together. It made me want </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> from our relationship so fucking quickly, which I think is kind of pathetic and I probably need to see someone about it--but I digress. It was really easy to just keep on hooking up with guys over the years, give them what they wanted and watch them leave in the morning because they didn’t give anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>back.</span>
  </em>
  <span> So there was nothing for me to lose if they left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin was full on crying. That just sounded so lonely. To think that he and Eliot had spent so much time, both of them working so hard to get to this place, that Quentin had looked at Eliot for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span> surrounded by a crush of admirers and hadn’t wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>try,</span>
  </em>
  <span> get rejected mixing in with that group. What could have been the worst that could happen? Well, he could have fucked Eliot three times and have him disappear. He could have had Eliot and lost him as easily as a pair of sunglasses. And Quentin wouldn’t have gone back after him--he hadn’t been brave enough back then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d both been so alone for so long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot continued, once again--Quentin should have been taking this down--like, if Eliot was going to accuse him of stealing his identity, he might as well </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> go for it and then beg for forgiveness later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I guess what I’m trying to say is that you gave me something back. And I am just such a lazy coward sometimes, always looking for a reason to bolt so I can end things on my own terms before I get hurt that I really fucked things up with you. I did. I fucked up--again. But I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t. I want to do all of the hard parts with you, Quentin. I want to take care of you and prove to you that I can change--that I’m not the man I was. I don’t want to be him again. Fuck that guy.” Eliot spat. His hair fell over his forehead and he couldn’t push it back with both his hands otherwise occupied. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I learned about the plot twist with the wise woman who told Sebastian he couldn’t be with Ciaran if he wanted him to live so </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s why </span>
  </em>
  <span>he was being a dick--so I probably should have just finished the book before I had a total meltdown and totally obliterated all of your trust in me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot, taking a page from Quentin’s book, was rambling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin broke in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s skip it the pining and miserable part--fuck it. We already did it. Like a while ago. Uh, you’re forgiven or whatever.” Quentin blinked away his own happy tears, wanting to see Eliot as clearly as he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean it?” Eliot’s chin wobbled, dimple and all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, “Eliot, we spent too much of our goddamn lives waiting for our Happily Ever After--fuck it. This isn’t one of my books, we don’t have to follow any kind of stupid story act or structure, mmph---”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was too focused on his great sweeping speech to really take in the way Eliot crossed the distance between them in three long strides, how he basically flung Martin (who let out an indignant yowl as he was thrown) from his arms so he had both hands free, to sweep Quentin up, haul him in for one of those epic, sweeping movie kisses. His cane clattered to the ground somewhere. There were tears, but nothing was reflected in the kiss but utter joy and passion. Quentin opened to Eliot’s mouth, nipping at his lower lip, curling into him like he could make a home here forever. Eliot made a broken, high whine into his mouth at the crush of it. Quentin pressed his hand to the side of Eliot’s face, fingers brushing the shell of his ear and the wetness of his tears mixed with the rain that was falling steadier and steadier around them. He pulled Eliot closer, hand wrapped around the mauve silk of his tie like he’d always wanted to.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re mine. See how I undo you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot practically dipped Quentin, the firm touch of his hands on the back of his neck and around his lower back kept Quentin on his own feet. Absently he felt Martin’s sturdy body rubbing up against their calves, pressing his head to the back of Quentin’s knee in a way that made it almost go out from under him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then he couldn’t keep </span>
  <em>
    <span>kissing Eliot. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Couldn’t pull away only to have Eliot press their foreheads together, gasping for the breath they’d both lost to each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot.” Quentin said. “And about a million other things I want to tell you but my brain won’t make words right. You’re just--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s breath caught. This close, Quentin could have counted every one of his eyelashes or memorized the placement of every last fleck of gold in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quentin--I care so much about you. I want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be </span>
  </em>
  <span>with you. All the fucking time. At the DMV. In your bed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>In my bed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>In the frozen food aisle at Trader Joe’s--with you. No matter where.” Eliot said, pressed a sure kiss to his lips. “I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ohmygod.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What--too much?” Eliot went to pull away. Quentin hauled him back in by his tie--</span>
  <em>
    <span>get back here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. You stole my line. I’m like crazy in love with you too, Eliot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A crack of thunder sounded, reverberating around them as big, fat drops of water began to now thoroughly rain down. Landing on his cheeks, cooling off his warm flushed skin. Eliot startled in his arms, reached for the umbrella he had hooked over his forearm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should get out of here,” Eliot said, shielding them from the rain with his big, black umbrella. What a fucking adult with his stupid umbrella. Quentin felt gross and tender about it for reasons unknown. Martin yowled pathetically and sat on Quentin’s toes to get out of the rain. “They’re gonna call the cops on us if we’re out here any longer and that’s not a fantasy I think you or I share.” Quentin nodded, mutely. Eliot pressed his thumb to Quentin’s cheek, swept away rain water or one of his tears, it really didn’t matter. “You’re in love with me, peach.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A statement. Not a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’re in love with me.” Quentin answered. He was absolutely jacked up with all the joy rattling around in him, raising his heart rate and dumping whatever happy brain chemicals he could spare. “Let’s go--I want, I want you. I want you to fuck me, finally. And I really don’t want to get arrested here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot swept in and nipped at his lower lip, growling-- “You just always want it, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah--don’t get cocky about it. Poor choice of words.” Quentin rolled his eyes. “There’s the matter of the cinderblock disguised as a cat on my feet though--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot looked down at Martin. Martin meeped and pressed his face into Quentin’s knee, rubbing there over and over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bring him home with us--he wants to stay.” Eliot nodded at Martin. “He’s not--he’s yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin looked back over his shoulder, at the car where he could see Rupert and Jane crouched out of the rain, watching them with the same gold eyes. Both of them tinged with black motor oil in places. A pang of guilt washed through him. He remembered them so small, dirty and malnourished. Mewling for his attention. How they’d given him something to do--a reason to leave his house every night even when it was the last thing he wanted to do. When nothing really felt like it mattered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he needed another one of those reasons at the apartment. Perhaps Martin could be that, another reason to get up and keep </span>
  <em>
    <span>going.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He was heavy as </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> when Quentin bent over and picked him up, surprisingly lax in his hold even as Quentin awkwardly hefted him up onto his hip to look into his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you say, Martin? Do you fancy an adventure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If a cat could roll its eyes, Martin would have. But he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>purring.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And he went easily into the carrier when Quentin brought him over. He latched the door, picked it up by the handle and rushed back under the umbrella with Eliot, stopping to scoop up the other man’s cane on the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take me home.” Quentin said, holding out the cane in offering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anytime, peach. I’ll get us there.” Eliot said, taking the cane. He tucked Quentin under the arm holding the umbrella, his other hand occupied with the handle of his cane. Quentin had his messenger bag and a somewhat unwieldy hard plastic cat carrier to contend with, bouncing against his shins with nearly every step. Still, he pressed his head to Eliot’s shoulder feeling light as air as Eliot steered them out of the lot, up the street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Towards Quentin’s apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eliot--you can tell me what to do--I might listen, but I swear to God, I cannot be held responsible for what will happen if you don’t fuck me in the next two minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his knees, right inside the doorway to his apartment, Quentin looked up at Eliot pressed back against the door, still in his overcoat. Because Quentin had pushed him there with both hands over Eliot’s chest once he’d dropped the cat carrier inside the apartment. Then Quentin had dropped down. Now, he was about half way through wrestling Eliot out of his belt--he was also wearing suspenders,</span>
  <em>
    <span> what was the fucking point?!--</span>
  </em>
  <span>rubbing over Eliot’s dick through his pants and thoroughly impeding his own progress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot pressed his head back to the door with a thud, then looked down at him, amused and turned on-- “Baby--you can’t, if you want me to fuck you, two minutes is hardly suffiecient given the current circumstances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck right off.” Quentin shook his head, finally getting the buckle undone. He’d been possessed by some sex-crazed demon. It was just--he could hardly believe he got to have Eliot under his hands, </span>
  <em>
    <span>in his mouth</span>
  </em>
  <span> again, when Quentin had spent most of his subway ride home that afternoon with his eyes closed trying to hold onto those memories. So yeah, he was a bit desperate. “You love me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes--” Eliot hissed, practically going up on his toes, when Quentin mouthed over him--because they needed to call someone about the demon. Just--later. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck, Q. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Slow down--” but he was palming the back of Quentin’s head and grinding into the pressure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you love me--” Quentin’s voice muffled against the fabric of Eliot’s pants. Sweet lord, he could feel how intensely hot Eliot was against his cheek, nuzzling against it. “Bend space and time--I don’t give a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“So fucking needy.” Eliot muttered; it washed over Quentin like the highest compliment. “Kneel back, let me.” Quentin complied, that didn’t stop him from groping Eliot’s thighs for all they were worth, pressing his thumb into the crest of Eliot’s right hip as he undid the zipper and the button. Whining because he couldn’t tap his toes. Eliot looked at him, bemused, gripped his chin between his thumb and forefinger, held him there for a beat. “No hands, okay? Wanna try it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holy hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded so hard his teeth rattled. Somewhere Martin meowed to announce his presence--still locked in his carrier. “Hold on--” Quentin knee-walked to the carrier and threw open the door. Martin flew out like a shot and made a beeline right for Quentin’s open office door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That taken care of, Quentin came back over to Eliot, sat back on his heels and observed the man before him. They were both aroused and panting, and while Quentin could only </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> what this tension was doing to his body, on Eliot he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> it from the way there was sweat gathering at his temples and the base of his throat, the buttons of his shirt struggling to contain the great big lungfuls of air he was taking in. There, between his legs, somewhat obscured by the bottom of his dress shirt, Quentin could see where Eliot’s heavy erection pressed against the silk of his boxers--they were black of course. And from experience he knew they were probably just as ridiculously short as the other pairs he’d seen. Was Eliot just very into the kink of near indecent exposure? Was It some kind of optical illusion created by his long-ass mantis legs that they looked so tiny?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quentin</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to try a pair on? Yes, yes, yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They looked so nice and soft that Quentin had to lean in again and press his whole face to them. Feel how hard Eliot was against Quentin’s cheek, smell the clean musk--no one did musk like Eliot, Quentin had never really been into musk before--where he was so warm and inviting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And somehow Quentin was going to take all of him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mind blowing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin went to pull down the waistband with one hand, the other pressed against his own dick over his pants because it turned out the ultimate foreplay was a six block walk back to your apartment with a man who’d told you he loved you while holding a massive cat. So Quentin was hard as nails. Uncomfortable and crammed against the zipper of his jeans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh-</span>
  <em>
    <span>uh,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot tutted at him, raising an eyebrow at him. Quentin remembered. Right, no hands. Quentin flushed, and because he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>oodles</span>
  </em>
  <span> of shame and it brought him nothing but the best outcome when it came to Eliot, he knelt up and nosed his shirt out of the way, until he met the smooth skin of Eliot’s stomach, the soft dark hair right above his pubic bones. He pressed a kiss there, feeling Eliot tremble with an intake of breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know--these are like actually indecent. I wanna get my hands on you through them. So small, basically women’s underwear. I want a pair.” Quentin said between open mouthed kisses and licks to whatever skin he could find.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peach--Q, you’d look so good in them.” Eliot’s hand grasped his chin, held him in place so he could rub himself across Quentin’s face. Their eyes locked. “You want something secret and pretty under your clothes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded as much as he could with the considerable shaft of Eliot’s dick resting against the whole side of his face. Couldn’t believe he was considering it. Thinking about it even when a month ago he would have been debating whether or not he was a total pervert. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>with Eliot--they could talk about this stuff. Quentin was allowed to voice all the dirty little things he’d kept tucked close inside for years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He got to try them out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You pick them out--I’ll try,” Quentin said. “I trust you, plus I’d end up going to Target and getting the wrong thing. I’m gonna suck your dick now, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, the waistband was between his teeth. Quentin worked it down carefully, so close that the burning, flushed skin of Eliot’s dick brushed against his upper lip, his nose and his cheek. “Peach, if you’d let me take a picture of you right now, they’d hang it at the Met.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin made a vague sound of </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Was it denial? No. It was of cautious interest, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell me more, </span>
  </em>
  <span>if you will. But he was busy trying to navigate how best to get the waistband under Eliot’s dick without snapping him in the balls with it. So not sexy. Like something out of a screwball sex comedy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to stretch the band pretty far and low down to get under his dick and balls and so far it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> working and had only resulted in Quentin’s face butting up against Eliot’s dick in a way that left a little blurt of precome shining across the apple of his cheek.  It was a no go. He wanted to do this, make it good for Eliot. Still, he was struggling to get the waistband where it needed to go and he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>impatient.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> He made an annoyed huffing sound, looked up to convey his situation and Eliot took pity on him, lifting his cock out of his boxers so Quentin could let go. He couldn’t help but stare at the little dark marks of moisture he’d left on the material from his lips and teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot was half-hard, heavy and quickly firming up. Already so big--it was just kind of infuriating and also sexy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He licked up the length of Eliot’s dick in thanks, gripping his own knees tightly so that he wouldn’t reach out to touch. Quentin thought about actually sitting on his hands to take away the temptation but knew he wouldn’t be in trouble if he slipped up. This wasn’t like it had been before. He could do as he pleased without his rules--which actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> kind of applicable all the time, what with honesty and clear communication being at the forefront--he didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot to tell him what to do. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin also didn’t hate it. Like </span>
  <em>
    <span>at all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I’d let you take a picture,” Quentin said, humming around the taste of Eliot now that he’d gotten a bit of it. Staring at the flushed head, all smooth and inviting. Then, cast his eyes back up at Eliot’s face. “Not like on your phone or anything--maybe like a polaroid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s eyes lit up, he thumbed Quentin’s mouth open. Quentin went </span>
  <em>
    <span>easily.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Peach--I’ve never been happier to be with a Brooklyn hipster. We’re discussing </span>
  <em>
    <span>all of this</span>
  </em>
  <span> as soon as possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin wanted to argue against the hipster thing, but then Eliot was guiding him down, pressing him where he wanted and where Quentin needed to be. Quentin didn’t need to be told to open up, he was fully committed to getting Eliot’s dick in his mouth like yesterday, wanting to feel him grow and harden--get Eliot ready to fuck him. He let Eliot lead the way here, thrusting shallowly in, one of those huge distracting hands of his around the base while the other gathered Quentin’s hair into his fist at the back of his head. Never too deep, never so far back that he tested Quentin’s gag reflex. Still, Quentin moaned around him--this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> was something he could do all day if given the chance. He wanted that one day, just for Eliot to put him on his knees and to hold Eliot’s dick on his tongue while Quentin lost all sense of space and time. That was good shit. He was wrapped up in the taste of Eliot’s skin, the weight of him in his mouth, the way he told Quentin over and over again how good he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his eyes closed down there on the floor, he really did feel it--like a gift. One given freely and cherished by the recipient. How did he get so lucky? To have Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>back.</span>
  </em>
  <span> To quote Margo, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Wow, Coldwater. You’re a soft bitch.’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled against Eliot’s hand in his hair, trying to take more, even if it made his eyes water, the thrill of it, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> had him unzipping his own jeans and getting a hand around himself. Just a few strokes, just enough to take the edge off. Eliot let him have it, pulled Quentin’s mouth on to him deeper. The pressure of his hand pulling Quentin’s hair such a nice counterpoint to the heavy </span>
  <em>
    <span>full</span>
  </em>
  <span> feeling in his mouth. Quentin wanted to take all of him, wanted to struggle at it until he made good and could press his nose all the way to the neat curls at the base of his dick. His eyes were already watering with still a considerable amount to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin pressed forward hungrily, getting himself lower, raising his chin higher, trying to get a better angle for Eliot to slide in. He took another inch, the tradeoff came in the form of Eliot hitting his gag reflex square on at the back of his throat. He made a particularly gross hacking sound and gripped Eliot’s knees to steady himself as his body recoiled with it, his stomach in knots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>baby.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That’s enough now. Don’t hurt yourself.”  Eliot made a broken sound, pulled him off and away with the hand in his hair. Quentin was aware of his runny nose, the drool on his chin. Still, Eliot looked at him like a treasure. “Come on, peach. There’s so much more I want to do to you--need to open you up to take me. Get you all loose and ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin keened and pulled against the hand in his hair, getting in one last lick to the head of Eliot’s dick. Eliot hissed, looking pained. He pressed his head back against the door with a thud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want it. Want you to fuck me--” Voice completely </span>
  <em>
    <span>shot.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin pressed open-mouthed desperate kisses all along the skin he could see all along his belly, then the bare peek of skin right at the top of his thigh, next to where his balls hung, heavy and full, pressed forward hooked over the band of his boxers. “I want it--want to feel it tomorrow.” Eliot moaned. Quentin pressed forward, kept his eyes on Eliot as much as he could, but he could really just see the underside of Eliot’s chin from this angle. That sharp line of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed and muttered something to himself. Quentin laved at his balls. He felt the delicate, petal-soft thin skin of them against every tastebud, and moaned against him as Quentin physically felt Eliot’s cock jerk wildly of its own accord, knocking him across the cheekbone once, twice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sucked one, then the other inside carefully. His mouth was just so wet and raw. Lips buzzing with use. Quentin cradled him there carefully, ran his tongue across Eliot’s skin. Huh, well this was a new and interesting thing for Quentin to be wholeheartedly into.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did he want to hover over Eliot’s bed and watch him sleep? Attach himself to Eliot’s shadow and tag along wherever he went? He wasn’t going to test it, but he felt like he might suddenly be double jointed everywhere. He was possessed. That’s what was making him hum around Eliot and want to press his dick against Eliot’s shin to get himself off right here at the door with nothing but rough friction. That had to be it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Q--oh my god. You, you’re so fucking perfect, Jesus, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>mouth.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot knocked a clenched fist against the door, glanced down at him for a fraction of a second and then looked away, hand going over his eyes. “You gotta--we have to. Bed--fucking, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>bed.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin hummed against Eliot. The other man’s hand gripped his shoulder tightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Q--we need to go </span>
  <em>
    <span>now </span>
  </em>
  <span>or I’m gonna fall down and bust my ass--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that got him going. Instantly, groaning at his sore knees as Eliot helped him up with strong hands under his elbows until he was standing again. Quentin barely had time to ask, “Your hip?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Eliot was nodding and </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> going in to kiss him, a hand clasping into his hair. He let him have it for a moment and then Quentin briskly pulled away, threw an arm around Eliot’s waist and pulled him towards the bedroom. Eliot leaned on him. He’d probably rushed over from Quentin’s place earlier that night, and who knew what he’d done earlier that day before their fight at the studio? If it was too much for him--well Quentin could make the sacrifice of getting Eliot on his back, naked in his bed any day. Every day. He wouldn’t even charge him rent. Eliot could just pay his way in cock. Quentin would be sore and happy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wear too many fucking clothes--” Quentin grumbled to himself, hands wrenching Eliot’s overcoat off, throwing it across the chair by the closet door. “A hoodie has a zipper, </span>
  <em>
    <span>a zipper</span>
  </em>
  <span> and that’s it! See--easy!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot snorted, hands already working on Quentin’s own jacket and the hoodie underneath. “Some of us believe in delayed gratification. And style.” He said, pointedly drawing down the zipper in one firm motion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Four layers! You’re wearing four layers! Coat, blazer, vest--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Waistcoat--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>And a shirt!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin continued, unbuttoning whatever he could find, going against his instincts to just wrench whatever he found open because there were just </span>
  <em>
    <span>too many </span>
  </em>
  <span>boundaries in his way. Buttons be damned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot grasped Quentin’s hands, stilling him-- “Hey--we have time. It’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Eliot.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin glared at him, “I said two minutes--like ten minutes ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot shook his head, let go of Quentin’s hands and began to divest himself of his clothing in easy, practiced movements, laying his blazer over the back of the chair, popping the remaining buttons of his vest, shrugging off his suspenders so they hung from his pants </span>
  <em>
    <span>and that was a real look</span>
  </em>
  <span> since his dick was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>hanging out</span>
  </em>
  <span> without Quentin’s mouth on it. “I’m not the one who demanded to suck me off, peach. That was you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You must need an attendant to get dressed in the morning--look at you,” Quentin said, grumbling and getting out of his own clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was down to his boxer briefs by the time Eliot was unknotting his tie and laying it with the rest of his clothing. Then, It must have ridden up or Quentin would have noticed it-- “You’ve got to be joking--an undershirt? Five layers!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot somehow managed to look put-upon while stepping out of his shoes, dropping his pants and </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> standing before Quentin, naked. Well, he still had his socks on, but those were gone with a steadying hand on Quentin’s shoulder so he could bend and pull them off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gloriously naked. It never ceased to amaze Quentin that he got to look at Eliot like this, touch him. Appreciate the long, deceptively muscular planes of his body. How all of him just kept going and going, long and lean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why were the insides of Eliot’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>elbows</span>
  </em>
  <span> so attractive to him? His long, weirdly articulate toes? How could he be both so broad in the shoulders </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> have that waist?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved Quentin.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Knobby kneed. Scrawny. Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on--onto the bed with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>See? He said things like that? Only someone who loved him would say that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Quentin wiggled out of his boxer briefs and jumped up onto the bed, bouncing a bit with the impact. Eliot smiled down at him, made his way there in a much more dignified manner</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are--um, there are condoms in the bedside thing--table. Lube too.” Quentin said, motioning to the bedside table </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> littered with all of the books in his To Be Read pile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot leaned back over and threw the drawer open, gathering provisions, placing them on the pillow near Quentin’s head, then leaned in to kiss him. They had to do it, the responsible protection thing. Even if Quentin knew he was clean. He wasn’t a believer in the romance trope of shouting out your STD status as an act of foreplay to leave condoms out of the equation. He had a propensity for paperwork--he needed to see Eliot’s before they could do this bare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Look at Quentin, learning </span>
  <em>
    <span>delayed gratification!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They lay there for a while, and Quentin became kind of obsessed with running his hand all the way up and back down the long line of Eliot’s body from ribs to thigh, cataloging the rises and dips in the topography of him. Eliot lay on his good side, which meant his scar was right there along the route of his hand. He stilled, sucking on Eliot’s lower lip because it was just so delicious looking, when Eliot dropped a hand over his, pressed it down, over the firmer, somewhat puckered pink line of the incision. Quentin traced it with his thumb--wanted to kiss down it too but that would mean leaving Eliot’s lips. Eliot shivered against him, held him there tighter, squeezed Quentin’s hand in reassurance. Quentin was effervescent with it, making Eliot feel good in a place that he usually didn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shivered himself in the open air on the bed as Eliot reached down and ran his thumb across his nipple--hissed into Eliot’s mouth when the other man gave it a playful pinch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were learning each other's bodies now that they knew this wasn’t just temporary, that they both wanted more. It made Quentin feel like he could bask in the smaller details, no longer trying to flesh out a full sketch of Eliot in the span of a few hours to keep in his memory. No. Now he wanted to spend forever just tracing the lines of him with his tongue, learning all the different textures of Eliot’s skin and the sounds that went along with their discovery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt different from all the times before. Quentin didn’t know what magic Eliot worked to get him into subspace, make him feel those big soap bubbles of nothing fill up his brain until he was sex-stupid and loving it. He didn’t feel it now. Now he felt so aware of every breath Eliot took, every twitch of his body. This wasn’t about Eliot telling him what to do or taking him somewhere because it was where he needed to go. This was both of them working </span>
  <em>
    <span>together</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get to a new place. Under new circumstances. Quentin leading and then handing off the map to Eliot. Again and again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Quentin drew away from him, panting and </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiling</span>
  </em>
  <span> and delirious with contentment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But also he was kind of an impatient fucker so--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliot, give me your fingers. Come on. Please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And because Eliot was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pushover</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Thank God! He did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t what he’d expected. Not at all. Eliot didn’t put him up on his knees or on his belly, instead they stayed there face to face, on their sides. Eliot guided Quentin’s leg up and over until it rested across his waist, close enough to the scar that started on that side that Quentin grasped himself behind the knee and did his best to maintain the stretch so that he wouldn’t hurt Eliot. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> nearly a full head shorter than Eliot so it wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> crazy of a stretch, but maybe some more yoga was in order in the future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he was aware of how </span>
  <em>
    <span>open</span>
  </em>
  <span> this made him feel. Exposed and already kind of desperate. This was somehow the most intimate thing he’d ever experienced, and he’d been ass-up spread over Eliot’s lap before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both watched as Eliot uncapped the lube and spread it across his own fingers between their bodies. Quentin felt a pang of arousal about those fingers doing just about anything, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>this was just pornographic. Then Eliot was gentling him with his other hand on his cheek, a long, lingering kiss to his lips as he reached across Quentin’s body for his goal. Quentin wanted this, he really did, but still he felt nerves making him tense up as Eliot’s deft fingers honed in on him, made contact with the sensitive skin where he was held open and exposed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin made a high, embarrassed sound at the contact. Eliot’s fingers were nice and warm, slippery with lube and pressing round and round over him. “Please, El. I want it--I want you so much. It’s just--been a while and not to beat a dead horse but if I was Margo I would probably be comparing you to like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>centaur</span>
  </em>
  <span> or something--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh--” Eliot kissed him right between the eyebrows and hitched him closer. Quentin felt a spark of pleasure as his body met Eliot’s and he could press into him, get friction between their bodies where his dick was hard and aching. Already so messy with wanting Eliot. “Let me do this, peach. You’re gonna love it--just, let me get you ready. Nice and slow. And if we </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> tonight, I’ll still make you feel so fucking good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin huffed and then gasped as Eliot’s finger pressed against the ring of muscle with intention, asking for entrance. Quentin pushed back against it, wanting so much for Eliot to just take him already, even if he was anxious. And they’d hardly just begun. But Eliot was right, they had to take it easy. So Quentin let him lead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot worked one finger inside, kissing him with dirty presses of his tongue, grinding against him, and there was a very real chance that Quentin was going to come before Eliot even got inside of him. He worked methodically, slowly drawing in and out. Sometimes with a twist of his wrist that made Quentin arch into him, others with just small little pulses of his finger, as deep as it would go. Quentin was hot all over with the feeling of it, a familiar sparking pleasure but it was always so different when it was someone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Eliot leaned down and sucked kisses into Quentin’s neck that he somehow felt in his nipples and all down the back of his thighs. Rocking his body back towards Eliot, he felt a second finger meet his entrance on the next withdrawal, made a vague sound he hoped conveyed his approval.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot chuckled against him, looking up with his kiss bitten lips and mischievous eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah? You want it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes--god. Please. More. Now.” Quentin threw his head back against the pillow, writhed down against Eliot’s fingers as he breached him with two now. Slowly, in in in until he felt so full </span>
  <em>
    <span>already,</span>
  </em>
  <span> until he was clutching Eliot to him embarrassingly and rutting against him. “So good. Love your hands. Good hands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm, you always want more.” Eliot answered, now scissoring his fingers inside him, making room. Stretching Quentin to get him </span>
  <em>
    <span>ready. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I love your hands too, peach. So nice and sturdy. So strong.” Eliot tipped Quentin’s chin forward with his free hand and bit down on his bottom lip. Sharp, hot little licks of pain rolled through Quentin, tumbling along with all the other sensations. He dug his fingers into Eliot’s tense back muscles, probably leaving nail marks. Eliot let go, laving his bottom lip with his tongue, bestowing it with its own kiss in apology. “I want your hands all over me--shame you like being bound so much. You wanna get your hands all over me, baby? I want that, want you to follow my instructions, get me all nice and open on those fingers of yours while you suck my dick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin growled, this was going to turn him absolutely feral. He hugged his leg tighter to Eliot, kept his eyes closed because it was all just </span>
  <em>
    <span>too much.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The growing heat at the very core of him, the stretching and intense pleasure of Eliot’s fingers inside him. High, nonsense sounds kept pouring from his lips but he couldn’t bring himself to really care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you to come before I fuck you--” Eliot said, panting so close to his face. “It’ll be better for you, we need to get you all loose and relaxed for me. You can do that for me. You look so fucking hot when you’re all wrung out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you--” Quentin complained, “calling me </span>
  <em>
    <span>tense?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot’s fingers curled against his prostate in a hard, dirty press-- “</span>
  <em>
    <span>F-fuck! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jesus, </span>
  <em>
    <span>be sweet--</span>
  </em>
  <span>be nice, El.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot barked out a laugh at Quentin’s pathetic voice, kissed him on the cheek in an apology, still chuckling against him. Quentin opened his eyes, locked onto his target and bit down on Eliot’s shoulder in retaliation. He got a reaction alright, Eliot’s fingers rubbed incessantly against that hot, sensitive gland inside him, made Quentin feel like he’d stepped on an exposed power line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright--Jesus. You’re the </span>
  <em>
    <span>worst.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin reached back, hand clasping Eliot’s wrist, trying to still his hand as much as he could. He could somewhat impede the motion of his arm, but Quentin could do nothing about Eliot’s fingers curling inside him masterfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, where’s my sweet boy?” Eliot asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck me and you’ll f-find out.” Quentin clutched at Eliot, but that just meant that he could feel the tendons of Eliot’s wrist moving under his fingers. He wanted to feel more. He reached back further and pressed his fingers down, investigating where Eliot was working him open. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh my god</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s eyes went huge and shocked then shuttered and he grasped Quentin by the back of the neck. Quentin melted. Fucking Vulcan Nerve Pinch. He was a goner. Still, he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel it</span>
  </em>
  <span> inside and outside, how Eliot’s fingers were working him open. How hot and slippery everything was with all the lube that had smeared between his cheeks. The tender, sensitive skin of his rim stretched around Eliot’s broad knuckles with every press in and out. The stretch of it was so addictive. Maddening. He was opening up to accept the wider joints of Eliot’s knuckles only to cling to Eliot’s fingers on the withdrawal like he didn’t want to let them </span>
  <em>
    <span>go, </span>
  </em>
  <span>not for a second. It made him clench down involuntarily, try to actually keep him inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Add one,” Eliot said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin melted again, pressed his finger to the lube that was smeared between his cheeks and </span>
  <em>
    <span>somehow</span>
  </em>
  <span> pressed in alongside Eliot’s fingers. Into the hot, wet clutch of his body. It was an intense stretch, breathing through it while Eliot was muttering ‘oh my god’ and ‘fucking look at you’ while Quentin took deep breaths and bared down to ease the pressure. So much. Not enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was moaning incoherently. They were just forced </span>
  <em>
    <span>so close together</span>
  </em>
  <span> inside and out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so fucking hot, Quentin. I’m so lucky. You don’t even--” Eliot panted against him, rocking his hand in and out. Quentin didn’t have the coordination in him, could just keep his finger inside and hold on for dear life. He let Eliot do all the work, pressing against his prostate, working him more and more open.  “You just take it so well for me. Take everything I have for you. So perfect. You like it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s so much.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He tried to relax into the stretch. Eliot’s fingers bumped up against his prostate every couple of thrusts. Quentin pulled his hand free away with a sad sound as he felt the pleasure mounting in him, curled his own hand around his dick, needing to release some of the pressure there. “So good though, I can--you can give me more. I like it. Feels less now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot muttered, “Oh, baby.” somewhere around his ear. But Quentin was wrapped up in the rising tide within him. The current grew stronger and stronger with every second, with every stroke of his hand, how it would butt up against Eliot’s stomach with every stroke. The tightness in his hamstrings at the stretch of his legs. And the glorious thickness of Eliot’s fingers, pulling away for an agonizing moment. “Hold on--I’ll give them back. You’re okay.” and then there was more lube and </span>
  <em>
    <span>three</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Eliot’s fingers pressing into him, so slick they just slid inside. Even bigger than when Quentin had a finger in alongside Eliot’s. God, he was gonna be </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrecked</span>
  </em>
  <span> after this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin let out a high, pained sounding moan and there it was, he came with the pressure opening him up, Eliot’s voice, “There you go--that’s perfect, peach. Come on. Come for me.” Kissing his brow like he was dying. Quentin tensed, looked down and somehow kept his eyes open to watch himself paint Eliot’s stomach and his own hand with come. Eliot’s dick was a deep, angry red and it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>going in him</span>
  </em>
  <span> soon. Quentin stroked himself through the aftershocks with a manic little laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He got this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>got to keep this.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin leaned in, kissed Eliot sloppily and with absolutely no coordination as he came back down. He moaned deliriously as Eliot drew his fingers out of him carefully, just pressing over his rim in teasing little circles that buzzed like static electricity all through his nervous system. He was so out if it, loose and happy it took him a good ten seconds to realise he’d slipped off of Eliot’s mouth and was trying to make out with his chin. Quentin chuckled to himself privately, stuck his tongue into that sweet little dimple Eliot had in his chin because he could, and pulled away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I need a minute--don’t shave for like three days, okay? At some point.” Quentin told him seriously, hands cupping Eliot’s face, running his thumbs over his cheeks and across the skin above his upper lip, marveling at the slight drag of his stubble. But he wanted more of it. Sharper. A lasting burn against his skin. Eliot’s eyes went hot, he swooped in and kissed Quentin hard on the mouth, his fingers pressed again into him where his asshole was all open, just the tips in a maddening tease. “I wanna--I wanna feel you, want you to get me all red and tender. Feel it all over. On the inside of my thighs--just everywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot closed his eyes and pulled his hand away from Quentin’s ass, clutching his hip tightly with his messy hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, I love you so much. You have no idea. You kinky little boy,” Eliot growled, hands moving him, pressing Quentin onto his stomach. He went, just no resistance. “Can’t wait to fuck you. I want to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wreck</span>
  </em>
  <span> you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, too. Please, El. It’s time,” Quentin whined, nodding into the pillow, canting his hips up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Take me. I need this.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “You, you’re so big. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please, El. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Honey. I want to feel it. I need this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot scooted down the bed, kissing and licking over the knobs of his spine along the way. Finally, he reached his goal and then he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh my god,</span>
  </em>
  <span> pulling the globes of Quentin’s cheeks apart and </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking at him</span>
  </em>
  <span> down there, at what he’d done. Quentin could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The air from his bedroom against the cool, slippery lube, how </span>
  <em>
    <span>open he was. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Warm and sensitive. Lax.</span>
</p><p><em><span>“Baby,</span></em><span> look at you.” Eliot murmured, sounding </span><em><span>wrecked.</span></em><span> Quentin clenched up, nervous all of a sudden. Eliot pressed his thumb to him, worked it inside like it was nothing. They both heard the slick sound of the lube, embarrassingly loud in the room.</span> <span>“You’re so pink and lovely. Look at how perfect you are.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Quentin pressed his hot face into the pillows and shook his head. “Please, El. It’s been just so long and I need it.” He was begging into the pillow, grinding down against Eliot’s fingers and the bed, half hard again after his orgasm. And Eliot, he could see </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It made him feel so vulnerable all of a sudden. So needy and desperate with wanting him. Kind of pathetic for how much he needed this. Needed Eliot inside him, taking him over, filling him up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only became aware of the fact that he was kind of crying when Eliot was suddenly there, turning him over, stroking a hand over his hair with a, “Hey, hey are you okay? What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. “I’m fine,” he said but it was nothing but a pitchy whine. “I am--I’m okay.” Quentin shook his head. “I was just--I was so scared earlier--that I’d fucked things up with us. Um, and then you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I just, I love you so much, and I want, I want this so much. And now I’m basically crying because I really </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> want you to fuck me which is kind of pathetic and slutty. I don’t want to be, uh too much. I guess. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot wrapped Quentin up tightly in his arms, pressed together from knees to chest, feet tangled together, Quentin tried to get a hold of himself. But his brain--it sometimes just got out from under him. Made things complicated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay. I’m sorry--sorry I put you through that, peach,” Eliot said into his hair. Quentin clutched at him, arms around Eliot’s middle so that he couldn’t escape. “Do you want to--want to keep going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sniffed, pulled back enough so that Eliot could see that he meant it, even if he was a little puffy and sniffly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m probably gonna cry some more. Just as an FYI.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot kissed him on the nose. “Is now the opportune time to tell you I think it’s really hot, that you do that? That you cry? Because it really is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Don’t get started on that. I’ll like--combust into flames.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Here we go. Roll over for me, baby.” Eliot guided him onto his side, so they were back to front. Quentin’s ass cradled in Eliot’s hips, the firm presence of him at Quentin’s back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin closed his eyes, tried to even his breathing in the anticipation for what was about to happen. He pulled his leg up towards his chest, opening himself back up for Eliot. Then there was the sound of the condom wrapper and Eliot’s soft grunt as he rolled it down his shaft. The wet squelch of lube came next as Eliot slicked himself up, then he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>there.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Fat and blunt and so </span>
  <em>
    <span>hot </span>
  </em>
  <span>pressing against Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ahh--.” Quentin involuntarily tensed at the feeling. So much for getting him off ahead of time to loosen him up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re okay.” Eliot told him, just pressing the head against him over and over, like he’d done with his fingers before. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But he was so much bigger.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot worked his other arm under Quentin and wrapped it around his chest, pulling him back harder, kind of making it hard to move his own arms. “Shh, just relax. It’s a lot to take. You’re doing so good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin huffed. Wriggled back against Eliot, trying to work himself through getting used to the feeling of just how large Eliot was. Eliot licked and kissed down his neck, nosed behind his ear so the sounds of his breathing was like the crashing ocean waves that close up. He stroked Quentin’s chest, played across his nipples. All while just rubbing himself against Quentin’s hole, enough pressure that Quentin felt it keenly the moment when his loosened rim gave way and then clung to the barest amount of Eliot’s cock head. Quentin gasped, shivering. Eliot pulled away, let him close back up and pressed in again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin melted back against Eliot’s body, jerking himself almost absently at the teasing torment of Eliot’s thrusts. So careful, just working himself back and forth until Quentin felt the whole head pop inside. The stretch was so intense and he already felt so full.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let out a long, high whimper, thighs twitching. The feeling of it, almost like pressing on a bruise, a satisfying soreness he kept seeking out and shying away from. Eliot’s hand was gentle on his hip, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>firm</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he was whispering right into Quentin’s ear. “Stay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re okay.” Quentin whined, tried to still the unconscious way his hips were trying to pull </span>
  <em>
    <span>away</span>
  </em>
  <span> from Eliot when every other part of him was screaming for more. “You’re so tight, baby. Just--let me take it slow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, acutely aware of the sweat drying cool on his skin while he just felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>pinned </span>
  </em>
  <span>there on Eliot’s dick. Words weren’t gonna happen here for a while. He dropped his hand over Eliot’s on his hip, gave it a squeeze, rocked his hips back into the overwhelming feeling of pressure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just breathe. You’re okay. Look at you. So good for me, Quentin.” Eliot praised him. Quentin waved a hand at him, face all scrunched up like he was gonna burst into tears at the stretch and ache of it. “You’re so fucking perfect, baby. Taking me. I’m so proud. Let me do all the work now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was slow going. Eliot worked his way inside with small, slow thrusts. In and back out in tiny increments while Quentin whined and panted and generally made himself a nuisance. Because he’d actually lost his own mind at this point. It just kept coming. There was so much. Opening him up and up. More than anyone ever had. Just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>deep.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“There we go,” Eliot said. Quentin could feel him </span>
  <em>
    <span>shaking</span>
  </em>
  <span> against his back. Little trembles like he was exercising every bit of his control. “Open up for me. We’re almost there. Such a good boy. I can’t believe I get to have you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin reached back, pulled Eliot’s face into his neck in what he hoped conveyed his agreement. Mostly he was just writhing there on what felt the biggest dick in the universe. Quentin kept letting out these long, embarrassing animal noises. Pained things that went on forever and ever. He couldn’t keep his mouth closed through it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got you.” Eliot said. Quentin hissed as Eliot palmed his dick, gone soft somewhere along the process. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his hands were so big that he could just hold all of Quentin, dick and balls in one go. It made Quentin crazy, pressing back against him even as it ripped another shrill sound out of him. “You okay? Want me to stop?” Eliot asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook his head, “--Is it? Okay?” he was slurring his words. Wriggling and suddenly shivering. Was it? Was it wrong that he wasn’t hard? That he hadn’t even realized? Not for a second was he aware of anything except for Eliot’s body and how he was remaking Quentin with it. “H-happens sometimes. Feels so fucking good--so full. Don’t stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You tell me, baby. Is it okay?” Eliot said. All he could focus on was how he was cradled in Eliot’s palm like a secret. Tucked away. If he could look </span>
  <em>
    <span>down--</span>
  </em>
  <span>which he couldn’t--he could just imagine how small he’d look, all flushed skin, heaving chest, with his hips hitching back against Eliot. How he’d look down and see Eliot’s hand </span>
  <em>
    <span>holding him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, encompassing his dick entirely. He wouldn’t even really be able to see it, all tucked away. Small and soft. And his stomach twisted in familiar embarrassment. But then Eliot was kissing along his shoulders, breathing hard. “I could--I could pull out and get my mouth on you. You like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Quentin clutched at him like he was going to disappear forever, “no--just stay. I like this. I want you to, keep going. Please? It feels just um, like you’re everywhere. Please stay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I’m--I’ll stay.” Eliot’s lips sealed right below his ear and sucked hard. His hips pulled out just the smallest amount and then ground back in. “You’re so hot--so sweet inside. Can I hold onto you? Can I? You’re so soft. Your sweet little dick, I love it. You fit here so nicely. Fucking perfect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin gasped, let out a tortured sound. Expected himself to start thickening, filling with blood in Eliot’s hand but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Too overwhelmed, too much to process. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need to get hard, not when Eliot was here holding him, inside of him. Loving him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliot, please? Yes. Yes. You just, take care of me. Fuck--it’s so much.” Quentin babbled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot pressed his forehead hard to Quentin’s shoulder and nodded against him. Kept his hand on Quentin’s dick, just cupping it in his hand like he owned it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin felt an overriding wave of tenderness and then utter bone-rattling shock as Eliot pulled back and pushed forward and </span>
  <em>
    <span>there he was.</span>
  </em>
  <span> There was the feeling of Eliot’s pelvis against his ass as he bottomed out, his public hair against Quentin’s skin, tickly and wiry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They let out twin exhalations of shock. Quentin had done it, taken all of Eliot. He already felt so wrung out and used. So full. Couldn’t even get hard but he was flying so fucking high with satisfaction, like he could feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>pleasure by proxy. Eliot pressed himself into Quentin, making himself a part of him was more than enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy fuck--” Eliot’s hand squeezed Quentin’s dick. He ground himself into Quentin, not pulling out, just somehow working himself into little circular motions inside that made Quentin’s eyes roll back in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I--I did it.” Quentin gasped. He clutched back at Eliot’s head, twisted himself around enough to meet his lips. Barely giving Eliot the chance to react before Quentin dove in with an open mouth, curing his tongue into Eliot’s mouth desperately. Eliot’s hips rocked and he made a wild laugh into Quentin’s mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was one long, stretched out nerve on the bed. When he pulled away and looked down finally at his own body, he half expected to somehow see the outline of Eliot’s dick up near his navel. He couldn’t. But when he pressed down there, on his stomach with a morbidly curious hand, he felt it from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>inside</span>
  </em>
  <span>, how the pressure nudged Eliot’s cock inside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Jesus Christ.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot moaned, squeezed Quentin’s dick and balls in a way that nearly hurt. It sent a little bolt of panic through him. Quentin hissed, hips pulling away in a futile attempt when there was nowhere to go. He was thoroughly pinned to Eliot’s body. Like a butterfly mounted behind glass. Nowhere for his fluttering wings to go but to beat impossibly against the glass. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But he liked it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The sudden and unrelenting pressure of Eliot’s hand, the desperation suddenly oozing out of his every pore to get away but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot let go quickly though, kissing him across the shoulders in apology. “S-sorry. Oh my god. Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded his head, “Don’t--talk later. Liked it. Fuck me now. El.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit--you ready, sweetheart? Gonna fuck you so good. God, this ass. So fucking good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do it, Eliot. Fuck me. Now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was staggering, taking Eliot like this. On the first small thrust, a few inches dragging out and back in again, Quentin shuddered with the intense drag, the friction of Eliot’s dick against his prostate. He didn’t even need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>aim</span>
  </em>
  <span> for it--so fucking big that it was like fishing with a hand grenade, Eliot was guaranteed to brush up against it with every thrust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like tectonic plates slipping by each other, creating earthquakes and Quentin was the fault line, shuddering and leveling small towns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>believe,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot’s voice was punched out, desperate against his skin. “Peach, you’re so </span>
  <em>
    <span>tight.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Deliciously, Quentin was desperately happy that Eliot’s called him that again: peach. It had been a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm, not for long I think.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot growled into his ear on a particularly long thrust. Hips stuttering against Quentin. “You like that? Like the idea of being able to take me whenever?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, hands reaching behind him for any piece of Eliot he could grasp, trying to move him faster, harder into him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Love it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Wanna be ready for you all the time. Take me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sharp pain radiated through Quentin’s shoulder as Eliot bit down there, dug in with his teeth on a series of savage little thrusts that had Quentin hollering, tightening reflexively around Eliot. Quentin dropped a hand back down to his stomach, pressing down, firing off great big waves of awareness through him at how deep Eliot was. How positively fucked out he was gonna be when this was over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“El, want you to come. Come in me. Do it. I want to feel it.” Quentin babbled, trying his best to move onto Eliot in any semblance of coordination. Mostly he just writhed in Eliot’s arms, the one holding him tightly to Eliot’s chest, and the other still wrapped loosely around his dick. So fucking hot. “Then--you better not be fucking done. I’m having you again as soon as you can get it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot shook his head against Quentin’s shoulder, his hips devolving into a series of sharp, uncoordinated thrusts. Any finesse completely lost. Intense shocks of pleasure fired through Quentin, overstimulated as Eliot’s dick rocked across his prostate over and over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Q--you’ll be so </span>
  <em>
    <span>open. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’ll slide right in next time--I will. Ohmygod.” Eliot’s breath was hot and moist against his skin, panting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin felt it when it happened. He wished he could have </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The look on his face when Eliot came inside him. The huge dopey smile he got on his face when he tipped over in release.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hell, the whole block probably heard it when Eliot came for all that he was making these indecently hot grunts against him with jagged, rough thrusts of his hips. Quentin was no better, he let out a loud sob. Shaking and brought to tears with the emotional release of it all, at making Eliot break apart the way he was, spilling into the condom. His hand curling posessively around Quentin’s dick still, tighter and tighter. Walking that tightrope they had before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god, baby! Q! So good--you’re so fucking good. This sweet--so fucking tight. Taking it for me.” Eliot babbled against him, chest heaving. His hips kept moving in absent little hitches, sending shockwaves through both of them. Then there was Eliot’s lips, everywhere he could reach. Across Quentin’s shoulders. His ear. His cheek. The corner of his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was so weird, the overwhelming sense of accomplishment and </span>
  <em>
    <span>peace</span>
  </em>
  <span> he got from Eliot coming, his own erection completely out of his mind. It was like a long, sustained mental orgasm. Languishing in the braindump of serotonin and happyfun chemicals that brought nothing but pleasure, not chasing the finish line of emptying himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot had to pull out at some point and Quentin couldn’t help the tragic sound that punched out of him when he slipped out with a filthy squelch. After so long so filled, he felt deflated and empty. Boneless and needy as he clenched down on nothing and it made him </span>
  <em>
    <span>so sad</span>
  </em>
  <span> all of a sudden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay. Hold on.” Eliot gave his shoulder a squeeze and slipped away for a moment, probably to dispose of the condom judging by the sound of the bathroom door opening and then water running. “I’ll be right back, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shivered on top of the covers, pressed two of his own fingers back inside, trying to quell the sour feeling of emptiness he felt. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrecked. </span>
  </em>
  <span>So wet and slippery. He could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel it</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he clenched down, how he couldn’t actually close up tight anymore. Trembling, he stuck his head in the pillow and just rocked his fingers in and out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would he ever be the same? At this point all bets were off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot hummed, a worried sound when he returned--must really be a sight to see your partner or whatever fingering themselves right after having the most life-affirming and intense sex of their lives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mattress dipped beside him and then Eliot’s careful hands were turning Quentin over, forcing him to withdraw his fingers for not wanting to crush his hand under his body. “Hey, baby. Look at you, let me help.” Eliot said kindly. He had a warm, wet washcloth from the bathroom, which he used to clean up Quentin’s face first, taking away the salty pull of sweat and a few tears. Then he wiped down Quentin’s chest and belly with careful sweeps of his hand. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Eliot told him, all firm assurance and warm eyes as Quentin looked up at him from the pillow, sniffling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He startled when Eliot drew the cloth back between his legs, an efficient move that wiped away most of the tacky dried lube from between his cheeks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Eliot.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin whimpered at the touch of the somewhat rough washcloth against his hole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, sorry.” Eliot leaned down from where he was sitting on the side of the bed, kissed him on the forehead. He threw the cloth into the laundry basket near the closet, peeled back the corner of the bedding and urged Quentin under the covers. It was slow going. Besides the dull ache in his ass, all of Quentin’s limbs weren’t operating correctly. It took him a bit to get under the covers, sidle up to Eliot’s chest so he could rest his cheek here right over his pec. “That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>amazing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re amazing, Quentin. Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, throat tight and eyes burning. “I’ve never felt anything like that before--it was so good. You’re so good to me. I don’t know why I feel like this now, um, when it was so--seriously so good.” He got his hands on whatever parts of Eliot he could, threw a leg over his good hip and practically latched on like an octopus. “I’m not--not subspace, El.” Quentin said, voice wavering. “It’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>um, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a lot? Sorry--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know--I feel it too. It was kind of a trip. Big emotional rollercoaster. Take your time. We have a lot of that now.” Eliot hugged him tighter to his body, wormed a hand under the blankets and rested it over his hip posessively. Quentin breathed in sharply through his nose, trying to hold back that peppery burn of more tears. “I know, it’s okay. I love you so much.” Eliot kissed the crown of his head and Quentin blinked his eyes closed at the feeling, a tear rolled across his temple and landed in Eliot’s chest hair. “Thank you--thank you so much. For this. For giving me a chance--for making me be the brave one for once.” Eliot said into his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sniffled into Eliot’s chest. If he opened his mouth to speak, it was game over. He’d be a blubbering mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually Quentin came back down to somewhat of a baseline, pressed from toes to temple against Eliot’s warm skin had that effect. Skin to skin. The kind of thing they talked about in hospitals for babies born too early. Their dime-sized hearts would learn to beat in time with the person who held them there in the nursery. What a strange magical power the human body had to calm another. Quentin had gone so long without this, without the feeling of another human curled around him or holding him. He’d been content to live with nothing but the scraps he got from Julia and Margo, hugs that lingered sometimes but that was about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot had said, lots of contact was good for aftercare their first night. Maybe that had been the biggest revelation about his first night with Eliot, that it felt just as good to press his whole body against him in the bathtub as an hour of touching himself on the couch had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a different kind of come down this time. More about his mind and his heart than his body, even if he did kind of want to whine about the lack of anything in his butt at the moment </span>
  <em>
    <span>which was really just never a consideration before.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin opened his eyes, pulled his head away from Eliot's chest and looked up at him expectantly, hoping for a kiss, not trusting himself to make the words without bursting into tears again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And because Eliot was a total pushover, he thumbed over Quentin’s lower lip with a little sound of affection drawn from someplace deep inside his broad chest, leaned down and kissed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Toes curling, full of too many things to name apart from one--love, Quentin kissed Eliot back with a sweet, slow curl of his tongue when Eliot asked entrance with his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other side of the bedroom door, a mournful low sound echoed. Half howl, half cry. So loud that it echoed through the apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin and Eliot drew apart reluctantly, both peeking at the door where a huge cat paw was clawing under the gap between the floor and the door itself like something out of a horror movie. Quentin snorted fully into Eliot’s half open mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I forgot to fucking feed him dinner--Jesus Christ, Martin. Hold on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin slipped out the bed on coltish legs, a bit bowlegged and kind of sore. Eliot made an appreciative sound while Quentin worried for a moment that all of his insides had shifted out of place permanently as he gained his equilibrium. He threw on his underwear and hobbled out to the kitchen to go feed Martin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was there, alone at the kitchen island with Martin loudly munching away at his dry food, that a huge eye-crinkling smile broke across Quentin’s face at the sheer audacity his life had to shake out this way. Utterly preposterous. So wonderful. A real surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Eliot?” Quentin called.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got like two minutes to collect yourself and then it’s on!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come at me, Coldwater!”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>SEE. I TOLD YOU I'D MAKE IT OKAY AGAIN. I absolutely thrive on all of your encouragement in the comments, sooooooooo let me know what you think about the chapter! Thank you so much for reading!!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. The Morning After</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter would not be possible without the support of hoko_onchi and Rizandace! Thank you two for all your input and beta work! </p><p>Thank you all for your patience for the nearly two weeks it's taken me to finish this chapter! But I really do think that this and the next chapter may be the best of the story so far! Also, if you aren't here for Daddy stuff...well, I can't help you there.</p><p>Trigger Warning: This chapter contains a negotiated D/s scene in which someone is under the influence, but still very much in control of their faculties and actions. See End notes for a more detailed description if this may be triggering to you. There is a mention of a past instance of a safeword being used and ignored during a scene. This is NOT a safeword that was ignored BY Eliot.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eliot groaned loudly the moment he woke, unable to hold it in as he became aware of his body. Gone was the hazy comfort of sleep. Instead he was abruptly thrust back into consciousness--with all of the complications therein. He heard a clatter from the other room. Eliot pressed both his hands over his face and took a deep breath. Struggling to even just straighten his leg and </span>
  <em>
    <span>flex his fucking toes</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot hissed and mentally kicked himself, since he literally couldn’t do it physically. But the pain was enough to tell him that </span>
  <em>
    <span>the third round last night had not been a great idea.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But in the moment--yeah, there’d been no question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not when it had been the middle of the night and Eliot had been woken from a sweet dream by Quentin’s warm breath across his neck and his hips grinding needily into Eliot, half asleep and muttering, “Just one more time, come on El. Please. M’ all empty.” Well, the only appropriate reaction had been to get Quentin on his stomach, to crawl over him while he wrestled with a condom in the darkness, and then drop down, until he had Quentin pinned there against the bed so he could slot inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it had felt so fucking right to lay on top of Quentin, to feel the smaller man beneath him grinding himself down onto the covers for friction once Eliot got inside. Once he was able to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>slip inside</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin with nothing but a mewl from him and a “I’m okay! Keep going! Fuck,” slurred against his pillow. He had been so slick and warm, clenching down against Eliot with his thighs spread dirtywide. Eliot hadn’t been </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span> about the next day, not when Quentin was something out of an actual wet dream he’d had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Eliot had rocked into him, despite the warning pain already in his joints when he had planted both hands on the small of Quentin’s lower back so he could hold himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>up </span>
  </em>
  <span>with enough leverage to really </span>
  <em>
    <span>give it to him </span>
  </em>
  <span>since Quentin was begging for it</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Part of Eliot always forgot how things had changed, he still had </span>
  <em>
    <span>muscle memory</span>
  </em>
  <span> of this. Pressed up over him, knees bracketing Quentin’s body, Eliot had watched as Quentin’s face had gone from a pinched expression of desperation to slack-jawed as he’d just </span>
  <em>
    <span>melted </span>
  </em>
  <span>under Eliot, going completely limp against the bed. Like a ragdoll. Quentin had come with a surprised little whimper, eyes slipping closed while his body was rattled back and forth from the force of Eliot’s thrusts. His hands clutching the covers because he hadn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>touched himself.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been so hot Eliot came right then, with Quentin grinding down on him, watching his lax panting mouth drool on the pillow.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot was paying for it. Quite literally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bed was empty and Eliot was grateful for it. There was no one to see his eyes well up as he dropped a hand to his naked body, pressed his thumb deep into his flank where the muscle was so tight Eliot could feel it there like a hard rubber band ball under the skin. Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot heard the gentle sounds of Quentin’s feet across the floor as he approached the bedroom door. He tried his best to compose himself when the door cracked open and a shaft of watery morning light spilled across the floor and into the room. Quentin had good blackout curtains up in his room. Eliot threw his hand back over his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey--” Quentin pitched his voice low, hesitant. Eliot felt the mattress dip near his feet. “It’s still early. Did I wake you up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot shook his head. He gritted his teeth and faced Quentin. He was sitting there on the end of the bed. Hair drying from an early morning shower, the cuffs of his hoodie pulled over his hands so he could worry them with his thumbs. Shoulders up around his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” He reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. The one he’d filled while naked for Quentin in the kitchen at some point. A tepid sip of water soothed his throat. Every part of him felt dry and brittle. Still, he steeled himself. “No. You didn’t wake me up.” Eliot told him. He tried to push himself up to sit against the headboard but couldn’t get any leverage from his legs when every movement of them sent bolts of staticky pain up and down his tight muscles. Eliot faltered back on his elbows, nearly dropped the glass in his hand in the process, but Quentin was there to catch it. “Jesus.” Eliot muttered to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Angry and incapable. He sounded like his fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dad. </span>
  </em>
  <span>What the fuck?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here, let me help, El,” Quentin offered, setting the glass away. He stopped though, hands resting above the bare skin of Eliot’s arms, not touching him. Eliot nodded, let Quentin wrap his hands around the clammy skin of Eliot’s ribs and on a count of 1, 2, 3 together they hoisted Eliot’s body up the bed until he was leaning against the headboard. “You’re all pale. Eliot, what are you--are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, this wasn’t something Eliot hadn’t dealt with before. Usually he was alone, or Margo was there with him. Quentin looked hesitant and jittery standing next to the bed. Margo, on the other hand, always knew what to do. When Eliot had bad days, that was what he needed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just overdid it yesterday.” Eliot said, trying to keep his voice calm, reassuring. Even so, he could hear the sharp edge to it, how his breathing was too shallow with pain. “Do you have any ibuprofen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded once, up and down. He turned and left the room without another word. Eliot reached under the covers again, tried to press his knuckles into the impossibly tense muscles along his left side at the top of his buttcheek. Margo liked to take her pointy magical elbow and press in viciously when it got this bad. And Eliot would hiss and flail for all of three seconds before he could finally fall back down into the bed and feel the tension melt out of him. In a pinch he had a lacrosse ball he could roll on, but it ruined the lines of a suit to travel with one in his pocket, so it was at home in one his of coffee table drawers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt guilty, wanting Bambi to be there just as much as Quentin right now. But she had such a way of just taking charge, doing the tough thing when he was obstinate and then she’d look so fucking satisfied when he could finally move again. With Quentin, Eliot could be direct, but Quentin was always second-guessing his intuition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apparently not this time, though. Quentin was carrying another fresh glass of water and a white bottle into the bedroom a minute later. “Here, I have this.” Quentin handed Eliot the bottle, and Eliot checked the dosage. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“And, um</span>
  </em>
  <span> I have this too.” Quentin pulled an orange bottle with a white cap out of his hoodie pocket. He shook it and a few little pills rolled around in the container.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot held his hand out, questioning. He squinted down at the information down on the bottle until Quentin turned on the bedside reading lamp to give him more light. It was a muscle relaxer. Not a particularly high dosage. Eliot had taken them before, early in his recovery. Margo had more hidden in her apartment for when he needed them. When it was a bad day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This </span>
  <em>
    <span>qualified.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot threw back three of the ibuprofen with a sip of water, left the cap on the bottle Quentin had handed to him and stared down at it for a long moment until Quentin spoke again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, Eliot. I did a thing to my back a while ago--don’t need them anymore.” Quentin was standing a few feet away from the bed for some reason, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Even through his discomfort Eliot knew that meant something was </span>
  <em>
    <span>up. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin had been drawn to the orbit of Eliot's side ever since they’d first met.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will,” Eliot said tightly, set the bottle down on the bedside table even if a part of him shouted, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what are you thinking?! Take them! </span>
  </em>
  <span>He needed to slow down, evaluate the situation here. Make a plan. “Come here.” Eliot patted the side of the bed. It was nice and warm in Quentin’s apartment, but Eliot was bare chested, naked under the covers. He was breaking out in goosebumps, clammy from the pain. It wasn’t cute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sat, just the barest edge of his hip on the side of the bed, looking everywhere but at Eliot. Hands in his lap, the line of his mouth a thin, forced smile. Quentin’s resting face was </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> a smile. The natural curve of his mouth was always a bit pouty and dissatisfied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can go home,” Eliot said, even if the thought of being all cramped up in a horrifying little compact car as an Uber driver chatted to him for the hour it would take to get across the bridge and back home, made Eliot nauseous. “If you have work--I can go home. Really. It’s fine. Last night was amazing, but this really isn’t what you </span>
  <em>
    <span>signed up for.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “No, stay. I can help--it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> what I signed up for, Eliot. I want to do that. I kind of owe you that, after last night.” Quentin shook his head, dropped a hand over Eliot’s even if he couldn't make eye contact with him. Last night they’d been inseparable. Colliding over and over again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>got it. </span>
  </em>
  <span> Massive discomfort was a major boner killer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Quentin had come into the room already like this, first thing, before he’d realized that Eliot was in pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck are you talking about?” Eliot asked. He drained the rest of his water and dropped the glass onto the bedside table. “You don’t owe me anything, Quentin.” Quentin’s shoulders somehow drew closer to his ears. “Fuck, no that’s not what I meant.” Eliot backtracked. “Jesus, I’m not doing this right. Just--check in. Okay? What’s going on with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m fine!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t bullshit a professional, kid.” Eliot somehow managed to sound droll. Quentin let out a sad little chuckle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sighed. “Eliot I want to help you, okay? When you told me you loved me, when you said you wanted to take care of me, that’s what this looks like. Letting me help you </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> taking care--” he squeezed Eliot’s hand. “I’m not mad at you, I’m um--I don’t know what I feel. I should be so happy right now. And I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But I woke up this morning really early because Martin was getting into something and I looked over at you and I got so--um, I don’t know. I just thought that you deserved to be with someone who could actually, you know, do things? Like basic things without you holding my hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot looked down at them, his hand over Quentin’s on the bedspread. He didn’t let go, flipped Quentin’s palm over and interlocked their fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry--this is just so stupid. Um, I should be--you need me to,” Quentin was worrying the inside of his cheek, a nervous tick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need you to help me right now.” Eliot told him, leaning over despite the warning throb down his side. His core was </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucked. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“It would mean a lot to me if I could show you how to do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook his head. “Yes, but maybe Margo would be better? She knows all this stuff. It’ll take me a while, and you know I get dis-distracted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo might be </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the short term. A selfish part of Eliot wanted her to come and just make it all okay while she ordered them both around endlessly until Eliot could operate under his own control. But Eliot had made a commitment yesterday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I need you.” Eliot pressed his forehead to Quentin’s. His breath was probably awful this close to waking but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “You can help me. I know you can. You’re so good. Can we just try something that might help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded his head against Eliot’s. He was reminded of Martin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Eliot said. “Here’s what I’m thinking. I’m going to take this muscle relaxer. We’re gonna text Margo to send some stuff over from my apartment later this morning. Then I’m gonna walk you through how to help me. And you’re gonna be a good boy and follow my instructions. Does that sound good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin pulled away, looked pointedly at the bottle of pills on the bedside table, untouched. “Is that okay? I mean, I know they say we shouldn’t do anything under the influence. The books. They’ve all said that. And if I’m being your ‘good boy’ or whatever, I’m gonna be totally out of it. It’s just kind of a fact. Low power mode. That’s what I go into.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I dunno if they had us in mind when ‘they’ said that.” Eliot shrugged. “This will make me a little loopy, really relaxed, which I think might actually help me talk you through it.” Quentin’s eyes lit up a little. He bit his lip and shifted nervously on the bed. “It can be hard for me to do that, ask for help. You know that. But I trust you. And I think that you might have an easier time with this if I’m still in charge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s round, wide eyes were unblinking for a long moment. “That’s a lot, Eliot. I don’t know exactly what it’s a lot of, but it’s just that--a lot. You can’t really believe that I’m not gonna somehow fumble this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I trust you. Quentin, I love you.” Eliot picked up Quentin’s hand and held it between both of his own. What was love if not dramatically proclaiming it in the rain with a feral fucking cat in your arms and then twelve hours later insisting it all over again while your boyfriend (?) appeared to be having an emotional hangover? “I’m not gonna force you into anything, so if this is a limit for you, then that’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay--I think it’s okay. If you, if you take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded. He reached for the bottle on the bedside table and tapped one little pill out into his hand. He held it out to Eliot expectantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picked up the glass, took the pill, hoped that it would start working fast so he wouldn’t get moody. Moodier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can change your mind, safeword out. I’ll still be </span>
  <em>
    <span>here, </span>
  </em>
  <span>just a little looser on the uptick. If you tell me ‘no’, I’ll stop. I will. And I know you wouldn’t, you’d never push me if </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>was the one who needed to stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, of course.” Quentin said, nodding like it was obvious. “I’d never--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot took a deep breath, “See, you’re so good. That’s why I trust you. I’ve been with someone--there was a guy who didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>respect that.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin turned to him, mouth a little ‘O’ in concern. “Eliot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can get fully into it later,” Eliot said. If he was going to trust Quentin enough to handle him when he was sensitive and delicate, he could hand over this part of him too. “There was a guy--Mike. We had safewords, stoplights in place. They didn’t mean much to him.” Eliot swallowed, mouth dry. “He asked me to do things I didn’t want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He hurt you?” Quentin asked, lower lip wobbling. Like Eliot’s pain was his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Eliot shook his head. “I hurt him. He was my sub. Mike wanted more pain, things that have always been hard limits for me. He’d beg for it even though I told him I wouldn’t, he kept wearing me down over and over.” Eliot focused intently on this room, this moment. He didn’t want to go back to that night four years ago. “It got bad, but I didn’t really realize it. I felt like I wasn’t a good enough dom for him so I finally--I did what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The pain in Eliot’s hip was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing. It drew his attention away from rolling around in his own mental self-flagellation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’d stop if I safeworded,” Eliot continued. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I know you would. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mike didn’t. I said it, I safeworded because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t--I hurt him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I safeworded and he begged me to do it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin scooted further onto the bed, wrapping his arms around Eliot’s shoulders. “That’s so unbelievably fucked up. I’m so sorry he did that to you. You’re such a good dom, such a good man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot held onto Quentin, nodded into his shoulder. He didn’t have any more tears to shed over Mike and how much he’d called into question for Eliot, by making him capable of the kind of violence that his dad--no, he wasn’t going to bring either of those men into this relationship. They had no place muddying the crystal waters of what he and Quentin had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you wouldn’t do that to me, Q,” Eliot said, giving him a rough squeeze. “And I'd never do that to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Never. I’d rather die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, that’s dramatic,” Quentin muttered, watery into Eliot’s chest. He pulled away, kissing Eliot briefly. “I want to make it up to you, let me help you. Show me how. I’ll take care of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Such a good boy for me, peach.” Eliot pushed Quentin’s hair out of his eyes. “I love that you let me take care of you like you do. You just </span>
  <em>
    <span>open</span>
  </em>
  <span> up to me, however you can. You’re so giving. I don’t ever want you to think that’s a detriment to our relationship. It’s not a bad thing.” Quentin blinked and looked to the side. “You won’t screw this up, not if you let me take control today, show you how to do this. Can you help Daddy feel better today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin hissed like he’d been burned, jolting in Eliot’s hands. “Eliot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just try it. You liked it before. You can tell me no.” Eliot ran his thumb across Quentin’s cheekbone. He had roughly half an hour before he’d dissolve into one big puddle of goo, best to use it wisely. “But I think you’d like it today. That way, you don’t have to think about anything, you just have to follow my instructions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A frown tugged down the corners of Quentin’s lips, familiar but </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> now as Eliot could see the great wheel of shame start rolling behind Quentin’s big brown eyes. He still had so many hang-ups about what he liked, what he wanted. Eliot knew Quentin deserved to not have to think for a while, but he couldn’t make him choose that. He had to do it himself. Eliot could just make Quentin feel as safe as he could so maybe he felt the freedom to choose what felt right in the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d done it before. So sweet for Eliot, letting his Daddy take care of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a grown man, Eliot,” Quentin said, looking like he was in about as much pain as Eliot was. Face pale and drawn. “I shouldn’t want--I don’t need that, to do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” Eliot nudged him. “There’s no one here but you and me. I love taking care of you, especially when you’re my good, sweet boy. You can be whatever you want with me. I love all of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nuzzled his head back into Eliot’s hand, closing his eyes briefly. “It just feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>small.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Helpless?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why I’m here.” Eliot massaged Quentin’s scalp with the tips of his fingers. Quentin’s shoulders rolled up and back down, practically purring. “To keep you safe. To make the choices. You just have to do what I tell you. I’ll help you. You’re so good at that. You won’t have to second guess yourself, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> got a thoughtful tilt to Quentin’s head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay--but rules apply,” Quentin said, ever pragmatic. “You have to tell me if I’m doing something wrong. And if I’m not doing it right, we call Margo and she walks me through it. Or she comes over and helps me take care of you. If either of us use our safewords, we stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, absolutely,” Eliot said. “That’s good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I took my Adderall a bit ago, just FYI. But it can take a few hours to kick in,” Quentin told him, out of nowhere. “Should you be eating something? Do you want some coffee?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot raised an eyebrow. “I think those are things </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>should be concerned about, love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling his eyes, Quentin somehow looked incredibly put upon in his flannel pajama bottoms and his old, worn Columbia hoodie. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Eliot pointedly</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will have some coffee,” Eliot said, interlocking his hands behind his head in casual repose. He could act this out even if his leg was still throbbing and tight. “Be a dear and bring me some. I’ll take a splash of cream in that as well. Do you have any bagels?” Quentin nodded. “Cream cheese?” Quentin nodded again. “And a bagel lightly toasted with cream cheese as well. Also, bring me my phone. It’s in my coat pocket. Thank you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin huffed and gave an awkward little bow as he went to retrieve Eliot’s phone and bring him breakfast. He wondered how Q was feeling the morning after. It was probably better for everyone that Eliot wouldn’t be fucking anyone for at least a couple days. Give them both some time to recover. Plus Quentin was bound to get antsy and demanding. That was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>blast.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He slid out of the room as Eliot pulled up his texts and shot one off to Margo. It was early, around 7 A.M. But Margo’s beauty routine was legendary--she’d already been up for hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>“Eliot: Bambi, i am permanently debilitated from fucking coldwater. Send supplies please. Pajamas, underwear (something cute, send options ;D), foam roller, brace, ETC.”</b>
</p><p>
  <b>“Margo: LOLLL YOU HUGE SLUT. u ok? need your meds???????”</b>
</p><p>
  <b>“Eliot: q had some things around. I’m fine. He’s being quentin.  OH FYI I’m gonna daddy the hell out of him today but if anything goes wrong, you’re on call.”</b>
</p><p>
  <b>“Margo: JFC you’re predictable. K. lemme know if me and big blue need to come and pinch hit for ya! :D don’t do anything stupid.”</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot snorted just as Quentin returned with a tragic coffee mug with ‘West Virginia is for Lovers’ on it and a plate with a toasted bagel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s so funny?” Quentin asked like he thought it was about him. He always thought he was the cause for any laughter and never in a good way. Nervous little boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Margo’s sending over some stuff.” Eliot glossed right over telling Quentin about Big Blue. He didn’t need to know the affectionate name that Margo had for her comically huge dildo. “She sends her love. Did you eat yet?” Quentin shook his head. Ahh. Then he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> need Eliot to make the choices for him today. “Go make yourself some breakfast. Go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin left and came back a few minutes later with a plate of his own. By that point Eliot was mostly through his bagel and drinking his coffee, keeping an eye on Quentin sitting on the end of the bed while he ate his food. Much too far away in Eliot’s opinion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you feeling?” Eliot asked offhandedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emotionally: conflicted but that’s nothing new. Happy, freaked out. Spiritually: ambivalent. Physically: sore but in a good way? I guess. Kinda feel like I did after Junior Cowboy Camp.” And then, after a pause, “No, I will accept absolutely no criticism about, nor dirty talk alluding to my time there.” Eliot had been moments away from making a joke involving the song ‘Pony’ by Ginuwine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds fair.” Eliot poked Quentin in the hip with his toes, hissing at the throb, but it was worth it for Quentin’s look of annoyed fondness. “What do you have to get done today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin waved a hand. “Not much I can’t put off. Answering some emails. I brought home a bunch of bookplates to sign. A few hours of writing. I need to call Margo about work stuff. But I can do that tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Eliot wagged a finger at Quentin. “I don’t think so. What kind of a Daddy would I be if you fall behind in your work because of me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliot.” Quentin flushed. “I hardly think--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot tutted at him, wagging a finger over the brim of his mug. “First of all--that’s not the game we’re playing right now. I want you to keep up with your routines. So you’ll be a good boy and put the things you need to do in my calendar so we make sure they happen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin got tight-lipped but took Eliot’s phone, punching in his tasks while Eliot continued.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daddy’s gonna take care of you as much as I’m going to teach you how to take care of me. Which means, you’ll do as I tell you. Got it, sweetie?” Eliot asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sighed dramatically at the ceiling. He’d see just how far he got with that attitude with Eliot. And they’d both love it the whole time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, got it.” He replied, then much more quietly added, “--Daddy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s heart thrummed at the word. So fucking predictable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just </span>
  <em>
    <span>really liked it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Taking care of someone. And it took a lot for Quentin to let him do that. It didn’t take much for him to see how flustered and nervous Quentin got about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>D-word.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot got it, he did. He understood repressing his feelings and bottling things up, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>not with this. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not with sex. So Quentin could be as hesitant as he wanted to be, but if he wanted Eliot to be his Daddy, all he had to do was say the word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very good.” Eliot said. Quentin handed back over the phone, shoving the last bite of his bagel into his mouth ravenously. Wild thing. “First things first. RICE. Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. All awesome things for muscle pain but I prefer to start things off with heat to try to relax my muscles so you’re gonna help me to the bathroom and then you’re gonna give me a bath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s eyes lit up, his dimples popping as he smiled shyly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t come in with me this time, peach,” Eliot said. He added when Quentin’s face fell and went pinched. “I’m just as heartbroken as you are. You’ll have things to do though, not to worry. And I’m gonna need you to run to CVS and pick up a couple things for us. I’ll write it all down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh,” Quentin complained, looking sadly down at his plate. “Can I wash your hair? Or is that--” he asked, a little shy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, sweets,” Eliot answered, fully aware that Quentin’s conditioner was totally </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> Curly Girl Method approved. Needs must, as they say. “Get dressed, I’ll text you what to pick up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, shyly peeking over his shoulder as ‘getting dressed’ turned out to mean shaking out his jeans from yesterday and just trading those for his pajama pants. Well, you had to give him points for being resourceful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything else?” Quentin asked moments later as he was scooping up his wallet and keys, putting them in his pockets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot smiled at him fondly from the bed, feeling more content now even through Quentin was about to leave. He had his instructions. He’d be back. “No, baby. Just take your time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin paused, walked back over to the bed and drew the covers up higher on Eliot’s chest. It felt abruptly like Eliot was the heroine of some novel where he’d contracted consumption. Still, he burrowed deeper into the sheets. “I’ll be back soon,” Quentin promised, pushed back that one wily lock of Eliot’s hair that never obeyed orders. “Okay, Daddy. It’ll be like 15 minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Eliot abruptly wanted to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck it</span>
  </em>
  <span> and order everything from Instacart. Quentin couldn’t leave now, not when he was being such a good, blushing boy. But then the thought of him running off with a list to purchase so he could come back home to take care of his Daddy was just too lovely to squash. “Look both ways, don’t get hit by a rogue bike messenger. Or we’ll have to discuss bringing in Margo full time to take care of us and I don’t want to share you. That much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin snorted and shook his head. “Right. Stay here till I get back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin gave him a long, considering look at the bedroom door and then there was nothing but the sound of him locking up from the other side of the apartment door. Eliot sent him a list of what he needed. Honestly, if Eliot was sticking around, it wasn’t a terrible idea for Quentin to own ice packs and a cheap heating pad. Eliot would need them again eventually. He practically kept the Thermacare Heat Wrap people in business over the winter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin hadn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen</span>
  </em>
  <span> the sexy collection of compression wraps or the huge ice and heat packs Eliot had on a shelf in his closet within easy reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was mostly content to relax back in Quentin’s bed, paging through some of the romance novels sitting on the bedside table. He hadn’t even considered that each time he’d slept in this bed, he’d ostensibly been sleeping on Quentin’s side, the side closest to the door. Something about that and the fact that Quentin hadn’t mentioned it made Eliot’s heart beat faster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed like Quentin was partway through some historical mystery. Eliot read the back of the book--something about a plot to prove that Queen Victoria was a werewolf in a steampunk London. The woman on the cover was wearing a really fierce red satin corset with fitted trousers and an overskirt with a gathered bustle. Huh. Eliot grabbed his phone and took a photo of the cover, threw it in a new folder where he’d been keeping his little bits of inspiration for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clockwork Chronicles</span>
  </em>
  <span> costumes he was working on. So far there were just a few photos in there, one of a storefront of leather bondage gear because </span>
  <em>
    <span>buckles</span>
  </em>
  <span> and a guy that Eliot had seen tottering around NoHo in an incredible pair of wrap pants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was idly considering the merits of a bustle for concealing weapons when he heard the front door open, CVS bags crinkling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot felt a dopey smile crawl across his face when Quentin popped back into the bedroom, bags raised in victory. “You know, that was the most expensive chocolate that CVS had, right? There was a coupon though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well thank God for that.” Eliot smirked, “Go ahead and throw the ice packs in your freezer. All those Hot Pockets need a companion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was back in a matter of seconds, rubbing his hands together, hair kind of everywhere and fluffy. He looked to Eliot expectantly. “I’m so proud of you, peach. Now, you can help me to the bathroom, okay? Go find me a towel and bring it here first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah--okay.” Quentin went off to the linen closet in the bathroom. He appeared moments later with a navy blue bathrobe that usually hung on the back of the door and a towel. Smart boy. “I hope this is okay--” Quentin trailed off, holding up the robe and a towel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so clever.” Eliot praised him. He was beginning to feel a bit fuzzy around the edges. The medicine was working on his pain along with relaxing his muscles. Already he felt like he could bend his leg a bit without pain lashing out at him. “Look at you. Come here. Help me up,” then he added, “Please,” to be less bossy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin helped him up to fully sit in bed, then to bring his legs around so they were over the edge. Quentin’s bed frame was much lower than Eliot’s, not the kind he could just bend Quentin over with ease--oh yeah, that was the muscle relaxer. Things were gonna get interesting. Setting that aside, it was low enough that Quentin had to take Eliot’s forearms and help him up to standing. They wobbled there together until Eliot was sure he had his footing and then Quentin draped the robe around Eliot’s shoulders, helping him put his arms through. Quentin even tied it closed when Eliot gave him a pointed look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh you’re gonna be insufferable about this. I can already tell,” Quentin muttered, still reaching for Eliot to put an arm around his waist and walk them to the bathroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not insufferable.” Eliot leaned heavily on Quentin. “I have a pretty, sweet boy to wait on me today--to help me feel better. You can’t fault me for using him to my advantage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin just sighed and helped Eliot down the hall. Eliot got a little perspective on what Quentin had been up to before Eliot had woken up. There was an open book on the breakfast bar with some printed out pages and a pen. Some kind of work for his book probably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Quentin was helping him into the bathroom and Eliot was ushering him back out so he could brush his teeth with the toothbrush Eliot had left behind last weekend . Now he didn’t feel so weird about it sitting there, or Quentin’s jacket (the one he’d left at the bar) and how it was still in Eliot’s coat closet from when he’d brought it home and kept forgetting to give it back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot managed all his bathroom responsibilities all by himself, having to keep an arm braced on the counter and then the back of the toilet for stability. When he was done, Quentin was waiting outside with a considering smirk and his hands in his pockets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They got Eliot sitting on the closed seat of the toilet while Quentin filled the tub. Eliot liked his baths like his tea; scalding or not at all. If he could, he’d probably live in the tub. Sometimes he’d spend hours topping up the hot water and just languishing in the steam and smell of his bath salts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot asked Quentin to bring in the epsom salts from the CVS bag, had him pour in a good amount and swirl it around with his hand so that it would dissolve into the water. Quentin had to kneel on the bathmat, leaning into the tub with the sleeve of his hoodie pushed up so that it wouldn’t get wet. Eliot watched unabashedly from his perch, feeling warm and wistful despite the pain. They’d work through it together, get Eliot back to center. Maybe calm Quentin down too. He was so fucking lucky to have Quentin around taking care of him, letting Eliot do the same when the roles were reversed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, Daddy?” Quentin asked from the floor, still on his knees. He pivoted until he was facing Eliot. He still sounded hesitant but he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Brave little toaster. “I have some other stuff too if you want it--Julia, bought me, there was a Christmas sale at Lush. She thought it might help with stress but I don’t really get the whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>bath</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing, so?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not unless you're in one with Daddy, huh?” Eliot answered, intrigued. Quentin’s ears went pink. “Show me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin yanked open one of the lower drawers at the bathroom counter and pulled out a little black basket packed with crinkled bits of brown paper and a bunch of pretty bath bombs that looked like ornaments, all brightly colored and layered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You pick one,” Eliot told him, curious how that would go. Quentin gave him a nervous look and set about picking up and smelling each of them in turn. Finally, he settled on one that was lilac, periwinkle, and pink. Without even being asked, Quentin shuffled over on his knees and held it out for Eliot’s approval. Eliot took Quentin’s wrist and pulled him closer, taking in the scent of lemon, lavender, and bergamot with something sweet and warm as a baseline. He kissed Quentin’s knuckles to see the way Quetin’s eyes widened as his jaw went a bit slack. “That’s perfect, baby. Good choice. Go ahead and throw it in.” Quentin’s lips curled into a bashful smile. Just precious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t get off his knees until it was time to help Eliot up off the toilet and out of the robe. Eliot instructed Quentin through helping him into the tub since he didn’t have safety rails like Eliot did. The first touch of the water was overwhelming, so hot that he felt prickles of sweat break out across his skin, but then when Eliot got all the way down so that his legs were submerged and the heat was seeping into his muscles, he felt like he could breathe again for the first time since he’d awoken that morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin stood by the tub, looking down at the water, at the hazy swirls of color and foam that the bath bomb had released, turning the clear water into an opaque wonderland. The steam curling off the water filled the room with comforting smells, wicking into the cotton of Quentin’s clothing, curling the ends of his hair a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take off your pants, Q,” Eliot said. Quentin didn’t even argue, just worked on the fly and drew them down his legs. He folded them and left them on the bathroom counter. “Sweatshirt too, wouldn’t want it to get wet.” No, of course not. If Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> in charge, he was going to give himself the best possible view. Which happened to be Quentin in his underwear and a slightly too-big hunter green v-neck. A familiar shirt, one that had disappeared from Eliot’s wardrobe after his first night with Quentin. “Aww peach, you like wearing my clothes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, shuffling around in his socks by the sink. “Yeah, I do Daddy. And it’s really soft.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The key to this man’s heart was apparently ethically sourced modal clothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come down here,” Eliot bid him, so he could hook a finger wet with bathwater into the dip of the collar of the shirt, right between Quentin’s collarbones, pull the other man closer and kiss him sweetly on the cheek. Quentin’s breath stuttered out against Eliot’s face. “Whatever you want, you can have it. You look so good in them. Want to see you in my clothes all the time, you look so cute and small in Daddy’s clothes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh,” Quentin said, hands curled around the edge of the tub. “I um, like that too. I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you want, kitten,” Eliot murmured. He could feel the tension draining out of him with every second the intensely hot water worked on him. “You can have it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bathroom door was open. Martin walked by and gave them both an annoyed look and then scampered away with the offbeat cadence of one front leg and two back legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It made Eliot feel syrupy sweet and regal to just lay back, throw instructions every now and then to Quentin as they went through the process of giving Eliot a bath. He felt better with every minute, sappy enough to credit all the love in his heart and not the prescription muscle relaxer he’d taken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mostly Eliot watched Quentin’s hands and mouth, how his nimble hands looked so splendid as he lathered a washcloth with his vanilla body wash and the way his mouth pulled to the side in concentration as he washed Eliot. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>such </span>
  </em>
  <span>a good boy. The best boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so good.” Eliot told him around the time that Quentin was washing his chest with sure circles, setting aside the cloth so he could cup his hands in the water to rinse the soap bubbles from his skin. Quentin ducked his head, shy. “You are, Q. So good.” Quentin just kept on working, on Eliot’s arms--even scrubbing the lather between each of Eliot’s fingers with his own hands. “Will you say it for me? Tell me what you are?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fretfully, Quentin rested both hands on the edge of the tub. His arms were damp up to his elbows in places and the dark hair on the back of his hands and forearms was all matted down and soft looking. Eliot wanted to lick them like a huge jungle cat. Groom him. Hold Quentin by the scruff until he quieted down and went limp, purring contentedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m good,” Quentin said after a long pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re mine,” Eliot said, drawing a hand out from under the surface like pulling himself from a tar pit, dripping with water and dropping it over Quentin’s. “Tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m yours,” he answered, with one long blink after. A sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you a man right now, or are you a boy?” Eliot asked, squeezing Quentin’s hand. A cluster of soap bubbles dripped off the back of his hand onto the lip of the tub. Pop. Pop. Pop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A boy--um. I feel like a boy.” Quentin bit his lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, put it all together for me.” Eliot prodded him. “What are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin tilted his head, stubborn. “I’m your good boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s right.” Eliot tried for stern, which was kind of tough when he was one long wet noodle. When the dull ache of his joints felt like it had diffused through the water like a tea bag and would drain away when Quentin pulled the plug. He leaned over, pressed his forehead against Quentin’s. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I don’t deserve to have this, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s eyes closed for a long moment. He pulled away. “I forgive you, El.” Not Daddy. Quentin’s Daddy would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> even dream of acting that way. Eliot would never--he wasn't. He was not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not like Dad. “Hey, check in with me?” Quentin said. His slippery hand wormed out from under Eliot’s and touched his chin, tilted Eliot’s head up, up, up until they were at eye level. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot shook himself a bit in the water, sent it sloshing against the walls of the tub in little ripples. All the colors had muddied to a muted cool lilac. “Yes--that’s not what I need to be doing right now, is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Quentin shook his head. Eliot nodded in agreement. “I don’t need you to feel guilty about yesterday right now. We’re skipping right to ‘The Lovers Reunite’, remember?” Eliot nodded, refocusing on that. That was good. Quentin guiding him back, so clever. “You’re showing me what to do, how to take care of you. I need my Daddy for that. Come back, unless you want to stop--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, please,” Eliot said. “I can, I can do this. Let me show you--that I can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded shortly. “Okay. Then do it, Daddy. I love you. I forgive you. But I need you now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Eliot cleared his throat. “I’m here. I can do this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded along with him, picked up the washcloth and asked, “What’s next, Daddy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that made it easier, to tell him what to do, to guide Quentin through carefully picking up each of his legs, working the washcloth up against the grain of his leg hair in a way that tingled even after it was smoothed back down. Watching Quentin’s hands dip below the water, feeling them rub the cloth higher and higher up Eliot’s legs where he was so gentle against the thin skin of his inner thighs. Over his groin (Quentin bit his lip like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh boy!</span>
  </em>
  <span> But Eliot was too wrung out for it to feel anything more than warm but perfunctory to have Quentin handle him), while Eilot’s arms were up on the sides of the tub, not doing anything to help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did the same with Eliot’s bad leg, but the stretch felt like a good sore. Like the ache after taking a lover instead of the electric haze of nerve pain zinging through him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good. That’s perfect.” Eliot praised Quentin, took his hand under the water and pressed it to the extra tight muscle at the top of his flank. “This is where it’s usually the worst. Later you’ll help me roll out and use those strong hands of yours to make Daddy feel better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s eyes had gone round and </span>
  <em>
    <span>darkdark</span>
  </em>
  <span> brown. He nodded, hand clasping Eliot’s hip under the water, not squeezing, just laying hands on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin had thin, cheap conditioner that smelled like citrus and came in a big economy bottle. Eliot wasn’t going to subject his hair to whatever sulfates lurked in the matching bottle of shampoo on the ledge of the tub. And Quentin seemed skeptical, but went along with Eliot as he told him to go find a pitcher, and fill it with warm water from the sink. Then he had to sit up, tilt his head back so that Quentin could get his hair, try not to fall asleep as Quentin worked the conditioner through his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try not to comb it through, baby.” Eliot said. “That breaks up the curls. You want to just squish it in, like this,” he reached up and took Quentin’s hand in his own, slippery with conditioner. He cupped their hands together, held Quentin’s hand up to gather a clump of his hair on the side, and squeezed their hands until his hair made a wet squelching sound. Quentin snorted. “Now just do that all over, you got this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Eliot just had to sit there with his eyes closed while Quentin worked on his hair, up on his knees to reach Eliot’s head. At some point Eliot’s hand wormed its way out of the tub and he ended up holding onto the concave bend of Quentin’s waist, a wet handprint on his shirt now. Whoops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin went kind of quiet and mellow through it all, his hands sure around Eliot’s biceps to help him out of the tub once he’d been rinsed and his toes were pruning. “Robe, sweetie,” Eliot said, and there he was, holding it out once he’d dried Eliot thoroughly with a towel, down on his knees again on the tile floor to get down Eliot’s legs, leaning forward to flutter a kiss against Eliot’s hips, first good then bad. A warm wave of arousal swept over Eliot despite how chaste that touch was, but it quickly washed back out to sea as Eliot sank into the sensation of simple </span>
  <em>
    <span>contentment. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Happy to just have Quentin pulling the robe over his shoulders, tying the belt and helping him to the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s toes hung off the bottom of that bed. No really. It was comical. He told Quentin to get arnica cream from the CVS bag. He stared down as Quentin parted the robe so one of Eliot’s long legs stood out in contrast to the dark blue fabric and rubbed the cream from the CVS bag into Eliot’s hip and thigh, down the outside of his leg to his knee. Quentin’s tongue peeked out from between his teeth as he worked, looking up to Eliot for approval every now and then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It still smelled like sex and warmth but he was too tired to consider changing the sheets yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, that’s perfect,” Eliot told him. “We’ll do that again when Bambi brings the things from my apartment. Go wash your hands, baby. Are you thirsty?” Quentin nodded, pulling closed the fabric of the robe, running his hand over where the terrycloth overlapped, petting over Eliot’s thigh. “Okay, remember the rule?” Ah yes, rules. Rules that Eliot was following too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin cleared his throat. “Yes, Daddy. I do.” His voice was rough and quiet. “I am. I’m thirsty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re okay. Go ahead and get us each a glass of water.” Eliot loved when Quentin's blinks got extra long when he was like this. The fan of his dark lashes spread out across the very tops of his cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The glasses Quentin brought back were already sweating in the warm apartment when Quentin held one out to Eliot. He drained nearly the entire thing while Quentin sipped his with a considerate look on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin took the glass from him and set it down on the bedside table, dropped down to his knees on the area rug next to the bed and rested his head on his hands, down by Eliot’s shins. Oh, but he was a dear. Eliot crooked a finger at him, brought him closer with just a gesture until he could pet back Quentin’s hair from his face over and over, until the other man’s face scrunched up into the kind of smile where his eyes nearly disappeared to make room for sweet crinkles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so good. My good boy taking care of me. How do you feel?” Eliot asked. Quentin’s head rested against Eliot’s side, rising and falling with his every breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like it a lot. It’s good. I can focus on you, don’t need to worry. Is it--am I doing okay?” Quentin’s eyes went fully shut. Eliot pulled on his hair just a bit, at the front where his bangs were always falling into his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect, it's so nice knowing I’ve got such an attentive boy to look after me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm,” Quentin hummed at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bullied Quentin up onto the bed to cuddle Eliot’s good side. He was exhausted already. Eliot wanted to nap. His leg was a dull diffused ache. The rest of him languid. Quentin was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm</span>
  </em>
  <span> curled against his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just gonna close my eyes for a minute, peach.” Eliot said when one blink turned into the impossible task of prying his eyes back open again. “Stay? You can--on your phone if you want. Just wake me up in 20?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, Daddy,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin said, his voice foggy around the edges. Quentin snuggled more into his side, pressing his heavy head into Eliot’s shoulder, his hand curling into the opening of the robe, resting over Eliot’s chest.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In this chapter Eliot takes a muscle relaxer and instructs Quentin in how to help him through his pain. The two discuss their safe words and rules ahead of time and agree to the scene. During the scene, Eliot is mostly more relaxed and a bit loopy. At one point he loses focus and Quentin guides him back.</p><p>Thank you so much for reading! Let me know if you liked the chapter in the comments! I promise the next one will be up way sooner than 2 weeks from now!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. The Care and Keeping of Eliot Waugh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for your warm response to the last chapter! This is a spicy one! And thanks to Hoko_Onchi for making me keep it spicy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Okay, so the thing about Victorian mourning practices was they were totally sexist and classist. Because only the richest ladies could really </span>
  <em>
    <span>afford</span>
  </em>
  <span> an entirely new wardrobe of mourning clothes for 6 months and then another set of </span>
  <em>
    <span>half mourning</span>
  </em>
  <span> clothes for the rest of the year. And even after that, there was the whole, </span>
  <em>
    <span>never getting to really wear bright colors ever again</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing! All because someone in their immediate family had died, they had to </span>
  <em>
    <span>go around like that</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the rest of their lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>People died all the </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span> back then! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How did anyone get anything done?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And don’t even get Quentin started on how it was so fucking commonplace for widows (of the upper echelon, of course) in mourning to be shunned if they partook in </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> public appearances (even a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>walk around the park)</span>
  </em>
  <span> for an entire year after their husband died! And women couldn’t remarry during that time either. For what? So that if she was pregnant there was zero possibility of the wrong family claiming an heir.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Men; they could take just a short month of mourning and then remarry without anyone batting an eye. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And how much did that say about women being disposable?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, and the marriage contracts!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>bullshit. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And fascinating. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And someone was at the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin jumped up from the breakfast bar where his old dog-eared copy of </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Mind Over Mood’</span>
  </em>
  <span> was sitting alongside his laptop with a journal article about depictions of widows throughout 19th and 20th century literature up on the screen. He’d been taking notes down on the back of one of his old thought records, the closest thing at hand, when he’d needed to jot down some references to look into.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The buzzer went off again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin scratched his head and walked to the door, hitting the button.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tinny voice of Todd answered from the box at the front door of the apartment building, “Hiya! Quentin, Ms. Hanson sent me over with a package for you! Sorry it took so long--the subway broke down for an hour and I ended up having to walk from--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cold, sinking feeling settled in Quentin’s gut. He hit the button to let Todd into the building before he could speak anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Todd was here, with things for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot, who was still sleeping in Quentin’s bed presumably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot, who Quentin was supposed to wake up--he glanced at the clock over the microwave--</span>
  <em>
    <span>two hours ago.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot, who was blearily rubbing the sleep from his eyes when Quentin skidded into the bedroom to throw on some pants, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>Todd was here. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Walking up the steps right now. With things for Eliot. Because Quentin was supposed to be taking care of him and he’d gotten distracted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baby?” Eliot said, looking around. From Quentin at the door to the alarm clock by the bed. His eyes narrowed and when he looked back at Quentin, they were much sharper than they had been all morning. No longer hazy and sparkling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I forgot.” Quentin said, bending down for his abandoned jeans on the floor. “I’m so sorry, El.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there was a knock at the door and Quentin spang up in alarm. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>fast.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot raised an eyebrow and waved a hand. “Quentin, the door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but.” Quentin looked down at himself, one leg inside his jeans. The lower half of his grey briefs peering out from under Eliot’s shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Pajama pants--go.” Eliot said, voice weirdly calm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded, chastened. He dropped the jeans and fled the room to retrieve his pajama pants from the bathroom where he’d neatly folded them and left them by the sink. Back when he’d actually been paying attention, when he’d been </span>
  <em>
    <span>good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Todd knocked again. Persistent fucker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He threw open the door, tying the drawstring of the pants, out of breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey man!” Todd greeted, all big eyes and wide smile. “Hope you guys are feeling okay! Margo told me you had a rough night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus Christ.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Like Quentin needed Todd’s reminder that his ass and thighs were pleasantly aching and tender. Quentin had been remembering it all, more than enough that morning, having to press a hand absently to his dick so that he’d been able to get any work done. He kept having to shift his weight from one side to the other on the chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re fine.” Quentin said, clipped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Todd handed over a big leather duffle bag and a warm brown paper bag that smelled like sage and rosemary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I stopped and got you guys some soup!” Todd bounced on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back. Quentin was abruptly aware that Todd probably liked to be called a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good boy</span>
  </em>
  <span> as well. Maybe even more than Quentin. “It’s not my Gram Gram’s but she always said it was the best medicine for--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Todd. Really.” Quentin said. He tried his best to look ill and then gave a weak fake cough into his elbow. “I should really go lay down now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he shut the door in Todd’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, buddy! Feel better!” Todd’s muffled voice came through the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin pressed his back to it and closed his eyes, knocking his head back against it once, gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Q?” Eliot’s voice floated through the apartment. Casual. Like, too casual maybe?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a minute!” Quentin called back. He threw the food in the fridge, slammed his laptop closed and splashed some water on his face in the kitchen sink. It really didn’t do anything other than seep into his shirt and make him feel kind of drippy. But that was a thing people did, right? They splashed water on their face when they needed to psyche themselves up for something?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot was waiting when Quentin went into the bedroom, carrying the duffle bag with a mullish expression. Eliot was sitting up against the headboard, propped against all of Quentin’s pillows so he must have been able to do that himself. His arms were crossed over his chest and Quentin’s robe had fallen open, revealing Eliot’s chest to his navel. He looked foreboding. Regal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin should probably be groveling right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could Quentin just scramble up on the bed and just press his face to all that skin in apology?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not if Eliot’s raised eyebrow and the firm line of his mouth were anything to go by. He raised a hand, crooked a finger at Quentin, bidding him closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin started blabbering the moment his toes hit the area rug around his bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I went to go find my phone,” Quentin awkwardly held the duffle bag in front of him by the short straps, bouncing it against his shins. “It was in the living room on the floor somehow? And then I saw that I had an email from a professor at Columbia with an article she thought I might be interested in. And I </span>
  <em>
    <span>swear, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I only meant to just open it up and save the PDF for later, but then I started reading it and </span>
  <em>
    <span>did you know</span>
  </em>
  <span> that in 1854--”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Quentin.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot broke in. Quentin’s mouth snapped shut with a click, his hands gripped the handles of the bag tighter. “Come here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin took a step closer, still a few feet from the bed. Eliot gave him a look that said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really?</span>
  </em>
  <span> So Quentin advanced until he was the rest of the way to the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” Quentin apologized. “I didn’t think, um. I really did mean to come back. Are you--how are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine. I feel much better. The muscle relaxer has worn off. I have all my faculties and such. Now, put the bag down, Quentin.” Eliot said. Quentin dropped it like it was red hot. Eliot looked down at the bag, shaking his head a little. “What were we doing today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were--uh, you were showing me how to take care of you today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot shook his head, “That’s not it, kitten. Try it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin felt jittery, nervous like the </span>
  <em>
    <span>one time</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’d been called to the principal’s office. When he’d thought he was going to be expelled for no reason, but it was really just so they could present him with a stupid award for participating in the county-wide academic decathlon. Somehow, he didn’t think he was going to get off that easily this time. Yikes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a lot easier to talk to Eliot this morning, when he’d been all sweet and mushy, literally telling Quentin how good he was just for breathing. And Quentin had fucked it up. He’d had </span>
  <em>
    <span>one job, </span>
  </em>
  <span>to follow a few orders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were--I was, um,” Quentin swallowed, mouth dry. He’d eased into these waters earlier in the day, now Eliot was demanding he jump right back in and it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span> to say it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Spit it out, Coldwater. It’s Eliot. He doesn’t care.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Daddy, you were--Daddy. And you were taking care of me, telling me what to do, for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot nodded once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you forgot what I told you to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No lying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shoulders up around his ears, biting the inside of his cheek, Quentin squeaked out, “I didn’t think, um. I did. I did forget, but then, later I thought that you wouldn’t care.” A passing thought. About an hour ago. The kind that had made Quentin pause and nearly jump out of his seat to run into the bedroom, but then he’d brushed it aside, kept working. “Because you didn’t feel good. I thought you wouldn’t care if you slept more. I feel better when I sleep more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Eliot took a deep breath, shook his head. “I know we joke about me being wrapped around your little finger, Peach.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when had his brain started interpreting that term of endearment with a capital letter and everything? Not ‘peach,’ like a sweet nothing, but ‘Peach’ like it was who he was? Another name. Another Quentin. But just for Eliot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We agreed that I would be in control today, and you went against my orders because it was more convenient for you. I told you to wake me up in 20 minutes. And you didn’t. You think you know better than your Daddy.” Quentin opened his mouth to argue, Eliot held up a finger. The disappointment, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “So I’m gonna give you a reminder for the rest of the day that Daddy knows best. I’m gonna give you a spanking, and you aren’t allowed to come today until I say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin took a step back from the bed. Stomach sinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I am. I fucked up. I don’t want this to </span>
  <em>
    <span>ruin</span>
  </em>
  <span> the rest of the day for us. I’ll make it up to you, whatever you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot primly tucked the edges of his robe back together, straightening the cuffs. Quentin pressed his thighs together, feeling all fluttery with worry and anticipation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This won’t ruin the day, Q.” Eliot folded his hands and dropped them into his lap. “If you take your punishment like a good boy I </span>
  <em>
    <span>might</span>
  </em>
  <span> even let you come later. But if you </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> and you want to sulk about it, I won’t spank you. I also won’t make you come for a week. And you won’t be allowed to get me off either. You can touch yourself as much as you want. Won’t be the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliot, that not--that’s stupid.” Quentin’s pulse was beating in his ears. He crossed his own arms over his chest. “That’s just as bad for you as it is for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot shrugged. “I have excellent self control for a lush. I can get by just jerking off. But I think it would drive you crazy now that you’ve had a taste of it. You’d be begging me by day 3.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook his head despite the warm tingling growing in his belly at the thought, at how Eliot knew him so well now. How dirty that made him sound. They both knew he was needy. Eliot was right; it would ruin his week.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Quentin said. But it came out small and broken. “That’s not--I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that easy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lie.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s eyebrows rose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need a reminder that good boys do what they’re told. Take off your pants and your underwear, Quentin.” Eliot said, voice low and firm. “Come up here. Over my lap. Come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin huffed, tapped his toes against the carpet. “I’m sorry.” He said again. Stalling. All the nervous fluttery </span>
  <em>
    <span>worried</span>
  </em>
  <span> energy beginning to leak out of his ears. He was left a small hollow trembling thing. Something Eliot could put in his jacket pocket, a trinket curled up against the </span>
  <em>
    <span>thump, thump, thump</span>
  </em>
  <span> of his heart. “I’m sorry I can’t just like--follow instructions, that I’m not good. That I’m bad at this or whatever. Like I couldn’t even just be normal for once this morning. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No you don’t, come here.” Eliot was leaning over, making grabby hands at him, reeling Quentin in by the waistband of his pajama pants. “You’re not bad. You can’t be bad at this. It’s not a skill thing. You’re good. When it's all over, I think you’ll feel better. You just need a reminder that I’m in charge today. Let me give you what you need, baby.” Eliot’s face was so open when he talked like this. His hands were warm and pressing gently into the purple-red fingertip bruises he’d left there the night before. “Don’t I know what you need?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded quietly. “Yea-yes, Daddy.” Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> seemed to know what he needed, even if it was just inviting him out for a drink with Margo when he was feeling weird and lonely or a sip of water when Quentin hadn’t even realized he was parched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Check in. What’s your color?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite his knocking knees, Quentin muttered, “Green. But, It’s weird. Scary. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Couldn’t follow orders. Couldn’t submit to a punishment. Just couldn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can.” Eliot wormed a hand up under his shirt and pressed it against Quentin’s stomach, just holding him. His hands were always so </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “It’s okay. I know it’s scary. It doesn’t mean I’m mad at you. Could never be mad at you. But you gotta learn. I’m gonna spank you until you tell me when you’ve had enough, what you deserve--because I trust </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> to tell me when you’ve reached your limit. When it’s over--blank slate. You’re forgiven. It’s over. Then I'm gonna totally spoil you--put you in a sweet little pair of my silky boxers you love so much so you can go around all day looking like your mine. Because you are. Aren’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin took a deep breath, the exhale a shaky thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m your good sweet boy, Daddy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s right.” Eliot said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Good.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Good boy. Let me take care of you. Love you so much, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin sniffled and nodded, pushed down his pants and his underwear into a pool at his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fold them like you’re supposed to, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So then Quentin was bending and feeling even more exposed as he was covered on top while the rest of him was bare. He could feel the hem of the shirt brushing against his bottom, his cheeks peeking out below. His neck was blazing as he walked to the foot of the bed, folded his pants and underwear, and dropped them onto the dresser.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So pretty, come here. Let me look at you.” Eliot said. So Quentin went, biting the inside of his cheek. He stood by the side of the bed again, let Eliot pull up the bottom of his shirt to expose all of him. The marks on his hips and thighs, all purple watercolor under the skin. “You bruise so easily, like a real peach, Peach. Have to be careful with you, don’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook his head, “No, um--you don’t. I like it when you, when you aren’t um, careful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot made a rough sound, in contrast brushed the back of his fingers gently over Quentin’s dick which was filling with interest, loved attention like this, like it wasn’t connected to his brain, which hated it, wanted to run away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You liked it last time when I spanked you. You’re not allowed to come. Not until I say. That’ll be your reward at the end of the day. Alright?” Eliot said. Quentin whined in the back of his throat. He didn’t need to worry about anything other than following that order, to not come. Not until Daddy said that he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Daddy.” Quentin nodded. His dick twitched against Eliot’s hand. Everything was beginning to siphon away. Yesterday. The worries of this morning. All of it. “I can be good. I can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. Come up then, we’ll get this out of the way and then you can help me get changed into something less prone to indecent exposure. We’ll enjoy the rest of our day, okay?” Eliot said, scooting more towards the center of the bed. Quentin helped him shift pillows until there was nothing to do but hop up onto the bed. “Over my legs, here. Up on your knees, there you go. That’s perfect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not--” Quentin said, trying to regain his equilibrium while balanced above Eliot’s lap on his hands and knees, not even touching him. He couldn’t even see Eliot’s face unless he really cranked his neck to look over his shoulder. “Not hurting you, am I? You’ll tell me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot gentled a hand over his flank, Quentin broke out in goosebumps and absently rocked into the motion, forward and back on his wrists. “All you have to do is stay like this, you can’t hurt me, Peach. You’re perfect.” Eliot pushed the t-shirt up his back, bunching it out of the way. And now if Quentin looked down he could see his stomach trembling with shallow breaths and his half hard dick swinging there between his legs. “Now Daddy’s gonna warm you up like before, when we were at my place. Remember the cornflower pajamas? You felt so good sliding all over my lap.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s lower half bottomed out like he was on a roller coaster. He remembered grinding down against Eliot and the couch, dissolving into hysterical silly noises at the sharp pain and the rush of endorphins. He’d gotten to come </span>
  <em>
    <span>then.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Quentin said. “I love those. They’re so soft. Want them. Want you to put me in them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you want.” Eliot said, and his nails were running down the back of Quentin’s thighs which just made him feel twitchy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was gentling Quentin, like a frightened animal, with slow, light touches and little words under his breath. Quentin breathed, found himself falling into the rhythm of it all even when Eliot’s broad hand stilled right on his ass cheek and then grasped the flesh there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, here we go.” Eliot said, lifting his hand. Quentin jolted with the first strike, a small thing really if his sense memory from last time was to be trusted. First sharp stinging pain, soothed immediately by Eliot’s hand caressing him, saying, “So good, you’re perfect. Daddy’s here now, okay? Just take it easy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that </span>
  <em>
    <span>was easy</span>
  </em>
  <span> for Eliot to say, he wasn’t the one ass-up getting spanked before lunch. Eliot couldn’t feel the absolute rush of endorphins dumping into Quentin’s bloodstream as Eliot’s strikes became harder, varying from place to place over and over until Quentin felt hot all over, until his elbows were weak and Quentin was making this </span>
  <em>
    <span>sound</span>
  </em>
  <span> like a wail everytime he was struck. Because it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There was no denying it. His skin felt three sizes too tight, like it was on fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, he still welcomed the way Eliot’s hand pressed into the scorching parts of him right after, rubbing away the sting until it was a dull roar that joined the ongoing chorus. Sometimes he was rougher, grasping a handful of his flesh and Quentin would try to wriggle away, gasping for breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was aching everywhere, each of Eliot’s spanks causing him to clench down the tired, overused muscles between his cheeks where he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> taken Eliot--what like </span>
  <em>
    <span>three times?--</span>
  </em>
  <span>where he wanted him again as soon as he could. Because he felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>hungry for it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Like Quentin needed something again inside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, he really was just such a slut for Eliot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah--please. Am I--?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re doing so good, Peach.” Eliot said through a particularly hard slap to the back of Quentin’s thighs. The buzzing warmth and pain somehow zinging up his perineum and to his dick. All his muscles tensing between his legs, Quentin watched--basically upside down, hair in his eyes--as his cock pulsed so hard it nearly slapped his stomach. “You love this, don't you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’ll be a good boy for me, won’t you? You won’t be bad just to get Daddy to spank you, will you? You won’t come without my permission.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Willingly disobey Daddy--no, the hard look in his eyes when he’d woken up had made Quentin feel about two inches tall. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t. Couldn’t.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No--please. I’m n-not.” Quentin stammered. His thighs were trembling. “Please, I’m good. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>so good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You are. Nothing to be sorry about. Look at you, you're all red and hot.” Then Eliot was leaning and shifting and his </span>
  <em>
    <span>cheek</span>
  </em>
  <span>, prickly with morning stubble, was rubbing along Quentin’s flank where he was smarting and it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>fire.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Scratching, casting sparks everywhere their skin touched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shuddered, all of his joints turning to water. His back bowed down, down, down pressing his ass </span>
  <em>
    <span>up</span>
  </em>
  <span> in offering despite the way his hands were gripping the covers and his feet kept lifting up only to kick back down futility.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ow, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts. Green. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Please. Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure?” Eliot pulled back, soothing his skin with a long stroke of his tongue, leaving behind a trail of saliva cooling in the air against his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m green. I-I’m good. Please, I’m yours. I want to feel it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot sat back up, gentling him again with long pets of his hand down Quentin’s back. He pressed the back of his hand to the vulnerable skin where butt met thigh, like he was checking Quentin for a fever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re unbelievable, Quentin.” Eliot said, voice quiet and almost drowned out by the wet, high whimpering sounds Quentin realized were coming from </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> now that there were no slaps to camouflage them. “Letting me take care of you. So fucking brave. Should we do this more often? Do you need a reminder of who you belong to all the time? You want to earn my spankings now? For being good and bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I need it, yes--Daddy! Yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did, wanted to feel it under his clothes all the time, sore little reminders of who he belonged to, who made it better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A broken little giggle popped out of him as he listed to the side, bumping into Daddy’s chest until a pair of strong hands righted him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t r-really the punishment, Daddy.” Quentin startled when Daddy guided his chin up and pressed a glass of water to his lips. He took a sip. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> thirsty. “I--like it too much. You know. It’s that--that I can’t come. Isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You figured that out, huh? So smart.” Daddy reached around and explored Quentin where he was hard and </span>
  <em>
    <span>leaking</span>
  </em>
  <span> now. Begging with his body. Not even giving him strokes or anything to fuck into. Clinical, firm touches that still make him keen and beg. He was wet, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Like there was going to be nothing left of him when it was over. “Yes. You’re gonna be a good boy for me all day thinking about how you could have gotten to come this morning for me. Then again after each of your little work chores. And now you don’t get to.” Quentin sobbed, he could be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, Daddy. Just one time, just now. Please. I’ll be good, I promise. It hurts. I’ll make it up--don’t let me come later. I won’t be bad. I’ll show you--I can be good. Please. Daddy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.  Are you gonna stay hard for me like this all day? Last night you were so pliant and sweet in my hand, didn’t want anything except for me to fuck you. Think I spoil you too much. Is that it? Now you want to come all the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin made an awful sound, high and quaking. His face mashed into the bedspread. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Yes, I do. It’s so much. Keeps making a mess--won’t stop. You have to--” He pounded the mattress with one ineffectual fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin hadn’t even realized he was dipping down onto his elbows, his chest now perilously close to pressing down into Daddy’s lap. Which--an urgent flash of </span>
  <em>
    <span>ouch, no</span>
  </em>
  <span> hit Quentin as Daddy’s other hand came up and planted itself across his chest, guiding him up back to center. Good, he hadn’t, hadn’t undone the bath and kneeling by the tub and </span>
  <em>
    <span>all of Daddy’s skin.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Couldn’t hurt him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you go. It’s okay. Shhhh. It’s okay. You just have to be good. That’s all you have to do. You’re so gone, baby. You get so sweet on me.” Daddy gave him a pat across Quentin’s sternum and then left to brush his sweaty hair from his eyes. Quentin twitched, moaning at just--anything. “This is it, this is part of it, Peach. Good boys get to come when they’ve earned it. You have to earn it the rest of the day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daddy gave him another hard spank, his hands were so all encompassing it sent ripples through all of him. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>howled</span>
  </em>
  <span> and jerked and cried. And his dick--needed. He needed to come. So badly. It was twitching and writhing all on its own, begging. When it shouldn’t--he had to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not come. His body was wired all wrong, fuck he was swimming in need and his blood was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>racing </span>
  </em>
  <span>through him. Was he bad because he liked it so much? All the pain and Daddy telling him </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘No.’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>because he knew what Quentin needed. Wrote it all out on his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe later, Daddy would kiss it better?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You crying for me, pet?” Daddy asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He said it too. “No. --’m not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daddy chuckled despite the lie. It was obvious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every touch was </span>
  <em>
    <span>toomuch notenough</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even the nice ones. Even when Daddy was so gentle and careful, rubbing away the hurt, making soft sorry sounds at him. “Shh. Shh. It’s okay. You can let it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then again, the teeth rattling impact and the crack of sound, unmistakable when he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>crying.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> No hands free to brush away the tears falling across his cheeks. From the pain. But also because he’d been </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Daddy wasn’t going to let him come until he proved again he could be good. But how could he be good when he wanted it so much? When he felt so good. When his body was all lit up like fireworks. Hot and bright. Flash of light. Crack of explosion every few seconds. A hazy of smoke covering everything after. “I can’t--can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>do anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> like this. Sorry. I’m--I can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re okay. You’re so strong, Q.” Daddy tilted him back until his heels brushed his ass and Quentin sobbed. And he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>there, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Daddy was there with his big smile, all million gleaming white teeth, and that mouth was saying, “I love you. You’re my baby boy. I’ll help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s wrists </span>
  <em>
    <span>groaned</span>
  </em>
  <span> but he kept them planted on the bed, holding his shaking body up. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You can say it--that’s enough.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Ow. Daddy, can I be--I’m done--hurt. Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, baby. So good for telling me. This body--you’re trembling like a leaf. Can’t believe you’re mine. Perfect.” Daddy kissed his nose and then Quentin was whimpering into his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Relieved. It was over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Couldn’t catch his breath. Couldn't--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling away from Quentin’s lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smiling and reaching out--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saying, “Aww, look at you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Poor thing.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>All considerate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Such a good Daddy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand warm, from spanking his good, sweet boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tried to warn him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was so close, “Wait!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All it took was a touch and--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No. No. No.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All over Daddy’s hand and wrist. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The bathrobe.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Messy, bad.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>At the same time: </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, Peach.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>and “Can’t--I’m sorry!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he sat there and shuddered through it, with a swift hand jerking him off with brusk efficiency and Eliot--</span>
  <em>
    <span>no, Daddy </span>
  </em>
  <span>was tutting under his breath. But his eyes were all liquid smoke. And it was--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Quentin was </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad. Coming without permission. Stuck there just riding it out while he babbled apologies and his hands were gripping the duvet so hard they </span>
  <em>
    <span>ached.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I barely touched you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Baby, you’re just so easy for it all the time, huh? Usually you ask to come.</span>
  <em>
    <span>” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Why was Daddy smiling? With crinkles around his eyes and his hand still wrapped around Quentin’s cock even though he’d come. “You ask, you’re down really far.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Usually, when he wasn’t being </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Daddy sounded so </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleased. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But how?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did, yeah. Twice the first night.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Can I?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, make a mess for me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Really?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin heaved a great big watery sob and threw both of his hands over his face, sitting up on his knees next to Daddy on the bed and he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrible.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Couldn’t even follow--couldn’t listen. Didn’t ask to--couldn't not </span>
  <em>
    <span>come.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And his ass hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quentin? Sweetie? Look at me.” Daddy said, just a hand rubbing up and down on his back all wet from </span>
  <em>
    <span>it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin shook his head in his hands, eyes closing up from crying. Snot. the works. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Q.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>No. Can’t. Won’t. Bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“S-s-sorry.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t get the breath in him to actually cry. Wanting to be able to </span>
  <em>
    <span>articulate.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Helpless. Everything was clipped, little gasps and not enough air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t g-go.” Could Daddy even hear him through his hands? Everything was a garbled mess. “Please? I didn’t mean to--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A punched out, shocked sound from someone else. Hands on Quentin’s wrists pulling--he couldn’t let go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? No. Come back, baby. It’s okay. It’s all okay.” And his voice sounded so </span>
  <em>
    <span>concerned.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can, um. I can do better.” Quentin was treading water, mentally thrashing. “Let me just--I can--please don’t. Don’t leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not gonna leave--remember?” Daddy’s hands circled his wrist and why was he kissing Quentin’s hair when he was a bad boy? That wasn’t-- “Will you look at me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He broke things. He was bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Words, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not--I can’t. I’m bad.” Daddy let him, let him hide behind his hands. “Not good. I’m a bad boy.” He forced the words out from between his hands. And it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span> to say them, to admit what he really was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does a good boy follow rules?” Daddy’s voice smushed right into his temple. Lips pressed right there against his brain. Quentin’s stomach </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” He knew--knew that meant he was bad, couldn’t follow directions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry.” Quentin gulped in a big breath. Tasting salt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me our rules, please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s three?” Quentin had to take breaks between each word, each of them tumbling out high and broken. “Answer questions--with words and be honest. Ask for what I w-w-ant. And t-tell you if I want to stop. Green. Yellow. Red.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to stop? Daddy won’t be mad with whatever you say. You took your punishment. Give me your color?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not mad? I came. I was--you’re not mad?” Quentin asked. Making sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No baby, could never be mad with you.” Daddy said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin peeked, hands pulling away from his hot, flushed face. At his blue bathrobe. The alarm clock. At Daddy looking at him with his eyebrows all pulled together, worried. His hands were so big, holding Quentin’s wrists and he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>small.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>take care of me. Please, I don’t know what to do. Make the choice for me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, Daddy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tell him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Love you, Daddy.” Quentin hiccuped. “I want you to stay--here. Want to stay like this. Please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daddy nodded, took the sleeve of the bathrobe and wiped under his eyes. “Daddy loves you so much, dearheart. Give me a color.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh--” Quentin slumped further onto his heels, pain rocketed through him but he couldn’t really move. Needed help. Needed someone to right him. “Green. Can I stay? Will you stay? I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Relief. Relieved? Because Daddy was nodding and saying, “I'll stay. Of course I will. I’m right here.” And Quentin was smiling and also crying again. Listing to the side against the headboard, knocking his shoudler. “Careful--don’t hurt yourself.” Because Daddy had all the pillows so he just slid bonelessly down the wooden headboard into a little ball. Come drying on his thighs and sticking to Daddy’s shirt. Oh no. “Hold on. Let’s get you a tissue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin blew his nose in the tissue and wiped his eyes on his shirt. Curled up beside Daddy, a hand clenched in his robe--</span>
  <em>
    <span>pajamas. Supposed to. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was really warm. Shivering and hiccuping on his side and Daddy kept rubbing a thumb over his eyebrow over and over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baby, I could never be mad at you.” Daddy said, scooting down the bed and a long line of his skin was exposed where the robe fell open, all pale everywhere and hairy. Except his dick. He was red and hard, all big and standing against his stomach. Quentin couldn’t look away, feeling squirmy and even hotter. That was--Daddy liked it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked it when he cried.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Liked all the ways Quentin broke things sometimes. Helped him put them back together. “Even if you make a mistake. Just means I know you’ll try harder for me next time, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I touch you, Daddy?” Lip between his teeth. “Please can I? You’re hard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Baby, baby, baby. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Fuck.” Daddy pressed his forehead to Quentin’s. “Be good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--said you wouldn’t be mad.” Quentin’s broken brain reasoned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daddy looked up, took a big breath. Quentin matched it. Daddy was splattered everywhere with come. He wanted--his mouth was watering. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Be good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just try--you can be bad later. If you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> Daddy to put you in your place. Let me be all sweet on you right now.” Daddy kissed him, licked the seam of Quentin’s lips and into his mouth, filling him up with honey all slow and sticky. “There we are. You’re mine. Bad and good. However. And I’m yours. You’re safe. You’re free.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” That was too good to be true. Being whatever. Being free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin pressed his thighs together, bashful and blushing. “If you’re gonna keep being Daddy, and if I ask you, will you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daddy snorted. What was so funny?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will I what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin blinked at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ask. It’s okay.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Next time--will you call me bad if I make a mess? It’s okay--if I know we’re just pretending. Call me a bad boy, later. Feels weird, good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The apples of Daddy’s cheeks went pink and his mouth dropped open.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Quentin.</span>
  </em>
  <span> We’re gonna talk when you’re back with me. I’ll give you anything. You know, we’re pretending if I say that. Because you’re my good boy. Always. That’s never pretend.” Daddy touched his cheek with the back of his hand, all soft. Quentin closed his eyes, practically purring. “I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you up to a change of clothes and a nap?” Daddy asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin wiggled against the bed, cool air against his stomach where his shirt had ridden up. “Something pretty?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, Peach. Something pretty as you are. Daddy’s clothes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a lot of energy to get himself sitting up. Daddy helped him, gave him some water and then took some more ibuprofen, “You should take some, too. It’ll help with the soreness.” he said, so Quentin held out his hand and took two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was exhausted by the time sheets were changed and he’d pouted through it but Daddy--sitting in the chair by the closet, going through the duffle bag--had a point, they were ruined. Then Daddy had him go get a washcloth from the bathroom and Quentin looked so silly when he got a look at himself in the mirror, with just a shirt on and his hair all whacky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you help with my hair, please?” Quentin asked, holding out a hair tie after he cleaned up their bodies the best that he could. His knees ached kneeling again for Daddy, but it felt so nice to rest his forehead against his leg while Daddy chuckled and smoothed his hair back, put it up in a bun and then tugged on it a bit to get him to look back up. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daddy leaned down to his upturned face and gave him a little kiss. “Sweet boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a lot of stuff in the bag. Quentin sat there on the floor, helping Daddy pull everything out, holding up a big black hip brace thing with a quizzical expression, like it was a puzzle. Daddy had him set that aside, digging through masses of silk and a clear toiletry bag full of little bottles. He held up two sets of pajamas and folded them neatly again, a little pile on the bedroom floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a leather case, like what Quentin packed his bathroom stuff in when he checked his luggage. Daddy told him to open it. Inside, there was a white container with a screw top and a hefty glass dildo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah--perfect.” Daddy said, reaching for the jar so Quentin was just stuck there kneeling on the floor with the dildo in his hand, all smooth and rapidly warming up in his hand. “You can put that away for now, Peach.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin curled his arms around Daddy’s calves and whined into his knee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin zipped up the bag, lifted his arms when Daddy helped him out of his shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Naked and drowsy, he helped Daddy massage a palmful of the cream into his hip and side, down his leg and then right </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span> into his groin so close to where he was heavy and warm. But soft. Dormant like a volcano. And Quentin had to focus so hard on being good when he knew how Daddy would firm up against his tongue. He smelled so nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This has CBD in it, I get it online. It’s really nice.” Daddy said, distracting him. “Press really hard here, baby.” Quentin made a fist and pressed his knuckles into the tight muscle Daddy indicated, watching him shudder first in pain and then sign, melting back into the seat of the chair. “Ahh--that’s great. Almost done, come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there were pajamas to help Daddy into, dove grey with crowns all over them. Quentin buttoned up all the buttons on the top but still there was a little bit of his chest hair that crept out, the notch of his throat. He snorted up at Daddy, “Bit much, Daddy. Even for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daddy gave him a huffy, haughty look. “What? I’m kingly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, yes. Crowns.” Quentin still found himself rubbing his cheek against them right at the inside of a knee, smelling the menthol of the cream, all minty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bratty.” Daddy sing-songed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then he was holding up a pair of semi-sheer eggplant purple underwear. And they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>small.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And Quentin gaped at them. At their delicate waistband. There were tags on them. Had Margo--had she? And he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>suddenly shaking, blushing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well--this is certainly a nice surprise.” He said. “Not my size, looks like they’re for you, Peach.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin was nodding up and down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes they were.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin had nail scissors in the bedside drawer. Daddy clipped off the tag and tucked it away somewhere before he could look at the price.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, it’s okay.” Daddy had him stand, leaned down in the chair and then they were sliding up his legs, smooth and catching in the hair on his thighs, ticklish. “Here we go. Perfect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They weren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>women’s underwear. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His dick, soft--though waking up somewhat at the new arrangement--had room to spare in the underwear. Room to grow. They were cut that way. For a man. Still, there was a resemblance to the panties he’d seen with the furtive glances he’d thrown at the window of Victoria’s Secret. The back--the back left a little bit of his butt hanging out--cheeky? Is that what they called it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stood there, feeling slim-hipped and kind of like he was going to pass out. Daddy could see through them. Not in great detail because the fabric was dark, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Daddy whistled, “Bambi really is quite the little miracle worker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please.” Quentin shivered in the room, covered himself with his hands which just made Daddy look </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>delighted. “It’s um--cold. And I’m tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if he didn’t lay down he was going to pass out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he ended up in just the top from the other pair of pajamas, plain light blue cotton. Long enough that it covered up the tops of his thighs and he could breathe again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll wake you in an hour, okay?” Daddy said once Quentin had gotten him an ice pack from the freezer and curled up next to him under the covers. Daddy was sitting up in bed, with his iPad--thank you, Margo--so Quentin could press his face to Daddy’s side and make himself a small little thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His butt still hurt, but if he didn’t move around too much, Quentin could tune it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, focusing on Daddy’s breathing, the tapping of his fingers on the screen, Quentin closed his eyes and fell into a light, gentle sleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The care and keeping of Eliot Waugh was a choreographed dance to the tune of hot and cold every half hour. It required a lot of trips for things. And there was a proper form for when they moved as partners in the dance. Eliot’s hands on Quentin’s shoulders, levying him out of bed, leaning on him as they shuffled down the hall to the bathroom, then to the living room, where he took up the entire couch. Quentin’s job was to support while Eliot did the leading--in everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin could barely let him out of his sight at all the rest of the day after his nap. He’d made his trips to the kitchen as quickly as possible, heating up soup, bringing drinks back to the living room. Eliot hadn’t seemed to mind. He liked Quentin close and needy, even when Quentin had come back to himself enough to feel his ears blush every time he called him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daddy.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Calm and weirdly more clear headed than he had felt in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>long time--</span>
  </em>
  <span>when he’d shifted back into himself and didn’t call him Daddy anymore--Quentin moved through his day at Eliot’s beck and call. Brought him ice packs and then the heating pad--finding an extension cord--so that Eliot could alternate hot and cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was kinda weird, but Eliot had a hip brace that was sexy? That was not at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> its purpose. Still, the fact remained. Quentin helped him wrap and velcro it around his waist--highlighting just how stupidly nice the curve of him was--and then knelt on the ground to wrap the other thick black band around his thigh over the silk of his pajamas. If it hadn’t been for </span>
  <em>
    <span>a lot of things</span>
  </em>
  <span> such as the warning look on Eliot’s face and the fact that he was grimacing while still somehow smoldering, Quentin would have found a way into those pants of his. His dick was </span>
  <em>
    <span>right there.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But he kept himself in check and followed directions and minimally pawed at Eliot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They settled into the living room. It was nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laid out on the floor by the couch when Eliot’s phone went off and it was time for Quentin to begin writing. He’d scheduled himself a few hours with some breaks. “You okay down there?” Eliot asked, wryly looking over the edge of his tablet at him. His hair was kind of fluffy and everywhere since he didn’t have any product in it. It was kind of distracting how it fell across his forehead in a riot of curls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded feeling warm and grounded in his body. “Yes, Daddy.” His ass ached dully and the memory of Eliot after his nap, rubbing arnica cream into his skin with the waistband of his underwear pulled down around his thighs made him tingle and rock once against the blanket Eliot had insisted he put down on the floor. Eliot had--he’d talked to him the whole time, told him what a pretty shade of red he was, spread him and </span>
  <em>
    <span>looked</span>
  </em>
  <span> with an appreciative sound. “You’re still so tight.” He’d commented, letting him go with a gentle pet to the back of Quentin’s legs all the way down to his knees. Quentin had gotten hard but then Eliot had just pulled the underwear back up over him and smiled a little knowing smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Be good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So now he was on the floor. It only made sense.</span>
</p><p><span>He couldn’t </span><em><span>sit</span></em><span> down to write.</span> <span>Not on the wooden stools at the breakfast bar. The standing desk was too far away. No, better to stay close and listen to Eliot hum absently as he put in his Airpods and sketched away on his tablet. Quentin was no stranger to the floor, the biggest writing surface in the house after all. He laid out on the floor, knees bent and feet dangling this way and that, absently while he worked.</span></p><p>
  <span>By the time the phone went off again, signaling that he could stop writing, Quentin hadn’t accomplished much. Nothing but a tender little carriage scene about swans. He imagined bumping along on a country road would like being spanked all over again--made a quick note of that and then shut the laptop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think I’ll join you down there, baby.” Eliot smiled over the edge of the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And while Quentin wished that meant Eliot’s body pressing him down into the floor like the best weighted blanket, what it </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>meant was helping Eliot do the stretches for his leg now that his muscles were relaxed. Which was </span>
  <em>
    <span>better.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin did his best to pay attention, applying firm pressure--that was good, Eliot told him--and resistance when Eliot asked for it. Eventually he just sat there feeling mushy while Eliot rolled back and forth over the foam roller that Quentin had seen peeking out from behind Eliot’s couch. Quentin should get one. And a yoga mat for him. Be ready for next time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey. You said you did this, before I came over the first time.” Quentin said, head bobbing back and forth, watching Eliot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It helps.” Eliot shrugged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could help you.” Quentin said, trying not to sound too hopeful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot paused on one of the journeys of his body against the foam roller, hands braced in the floor to help himself roll along. “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would have seemed silly, a month ago, to stretch before sex. Like it was some kind of headline on the cover of Prevention or one of those magazines still covering drama on the set of The Golden Girls at the bodega. Now it felt like another way they look out for each other. It was nice that Quentin got to be a part of the little normal parts of Eliot’s life as well as the magical ones. And the thought that Eliot had done this in preparation for Quentin to come over--stupidly sexy!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot smiled and went back to it, and Quentin just sat there and watched. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Helping.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Until it was time to answer his emails--which always took a quarter of the time he thought that it would--and then he had bookplates to sign, about 200 of them so Margo could have her team stick them in the books for the gift bags at the hellish, overblown party in his honor of his book. He was still </span>
  <em>
    <span>on the fence</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it. He’d never written the conclusion to a series before and that always brought a lot of anxiety about expectation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, but you can’t change how a person feels about something. Not really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was a good Heather mantra.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was really boring, the signing thing. It usually went much faster if there were people in line with books, even if doing hundreds of books took </span>
  <em>
    <span>hours</span>
  </em>
  <span> because Quentin got to listen to their little stories--there were a lot of cats named Sebastian now--and he didn’t really like having his photo taken, but he would take selfies with whoever asked. It was probably the one form of social interaction that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Maybe it was because there was an expectation that it would be quick, or that a person who waited in line to have their book signed would have nothing but positive things to say about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when Quentin was signing books in a store on or on tour, he didn’t have Eliot reaching one of his absurdly long giraffe arms down to pluck at the hem of his shirt until Quentin shivered from the air touching the exposed skin of his lower back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spat the Sharpie cap out of his mouth to look up at Eliot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>working.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be sweet.” Eliot pointed his stylus at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m working, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daddy.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Same cadence. Inflection. Tone. Everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to come today </span>
  <em>
    <span>or </span>
  </em>
  <span>this week?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scooched up on his knees, wielding the uncapped sharpie dangerously close to Eliot Pajamas--they were Dolce &amp; Gabbana--until Eliot looked at it pointedly and Quentin retrieved the cap and carefully set it with his stack of unfinished book plates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course.” Quentin said. Eliot reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind his hair. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>But also--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve created a monster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like it.” Quentin said, shrugging. “I came when I wasn’t supposed to earlier. That felt really intense in the moment, but I'm fine now. I like it when you tell me what to do and what your expectations are. Even if it’s sometimes something I’m nervous about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So that was okay?” Eliot closed the iPad and set it in his lap. Quentin scooted closer and rested his head on the edge of the couch near his stomach. Eliot looked down from where he was propped up by all of Quentin’s throw pillows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Quentin nodded. “And I was--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s eyes lit up from the inside. His hand dropped to cover Quentin’s cheek, his thumb hooked down over his jaw in a way that made Quentin sigh and melt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so responsive. It’s a real trip sometimes--that you let me be the one to take care of you.” Eliot said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like letting you take over. Makes it quiet.” Quentin said, considering. “All the highs are </span>
  <em>
    <span>so high</span>
  </em>
  <span> and the lows are really low too.” Eliot went to speak, but Quentin held up a hand. “I’m not--not as afraid as I was anymore. I was worried about losing control, that you’d see the bleed-through of </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> bad days and you’d take off. Because it’s really not pretty. Um--and that is gonna happen. I’m in a good period right now. But winter always makes me feel off, it's usually when things turn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot was quiet for a long moment, his thumb resting over the rapidly beating pulse at Quentin’s neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t leave your apartment.” Eliot said. “And you don’t return Margo’s calls. She still comes over. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll still come over. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m not your fair weather boyfriend, Quentin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded. Tightly. “I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>like that</span>
  </em>
  <span> when it happens. I don’t really cry all that often. I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I don’t do things. Or really talk. Or sleep. Or eat. So just--be prepared for that. At some point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you should show me how to take care of </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Eliot said, soft. “For when you’re low, baby. Walk me through it. Or make me a list. I wanna be able to help you like you help me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin snorted. “A lot of the time the list is things like ‘physically get Quentin in the shower’ or ‘Put Quentin out in the sun at some point’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure I can make that happen. I can be very persuasive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can get mean. I don’t try to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s pretend, right? Like you said. I’ll know it’s pretend when you’re like that because underneath you’re my good boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook his head, suddenly needing to clear his throat. “Yeah, um weren’t we talking about me getting to come again at some point today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We </span>
  <em>
    <span>were.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot singsonged. His hand tightened a bit on Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin let out an audible moan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, you’ll have to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>really good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>For that to happen.” Eliot said in a considering tone. Quentin gestured to his work on the floor. At all of his neatly stacked book plates and the ones he’s laid out so the ink could dry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean--it’s up to you. Whatever you think I deserve, I guess.” Quentin tried for sounding nonchalant. It was really hard to do when he could press himself against the side of the couch to get some friction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright.” Eliot agreed. “Come here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So then Quentin was scooting over and knocking over his neat little pile of book plates so that Eliot could kiss him sweet and then dirty while he knelt there on the living room floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That turned out to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>mistake.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Because it seemed like Eliot then became determined to drive Quentin out of his mind for the rest of the day. He just kept </span>
  <em>
    <span>touching </span>
  </em>
  <span>Quentin. Here and there so casually with every trip he made to go fetch something or leave the room. Eliot would pull him up to the edge of the couch and hold his throat in one of his strong hands and kiss him breathless before bidding him to go back to work. Put his hand in Quentin’s hair, just pet over him while he was trying to write. He’d reach down and lift the back of the shirt, press a curious fingertip under the edge of Quentin’s underwear and lift it to the side so he could check for bruising.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just let me look at you, there you go.” He said while Quentin fully plopped to the floor and put his arms over his head to groan into.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there was the actual hell of returning to the bed once Eliot had deemed a few hours laying on the floor too painful for him to look at anymore. He’d demanded to be moved back to bed with the heating pad on one side and Quentin pressed against the other. It was like a furnace. Heat all over. And then there’d been buttons being undone because they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>under the covers</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “Come on, you must be warm. You’re all flushed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s just how I a-am.” Quentin stuttered because Eliot was pressed so close, all soft and Quentin’s shirt was just barely hanging off his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You run hot.” Eliot nodded. Then, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was playing with Quentin’s nipples and the back of his thighs were tingling. He was hard and aching, smushed against Eliot’s body and Eliot </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Knew what he needed. “It’s okay, you can take what you need. Let me watch you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So then because Quentin was completely weak of will or fortitude, he immediately flopped over onto his stomach, clutching a pillow to his chest and rocked down against the bed. Sometimes, that felt better than jerking off. It took longer but it left him buzzing all over. He could just close his eyes and let the friction build, legs all spread wide. His knees firmly pressed into the bed, toes helping to rock him back and forth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you go. Look at you.” Eliot scooted closer, dropped a hand onto his back under the shirt just rested it there. But it felt like he was pressing Quentin into the bed </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Eliot’s phone went off. Quentin paused, ears burning. Eliot shook his head at him, said “Keep going.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Quentin did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even when Eliot leaned away, said, “Oh, would you look at that. 3:30--time to call Margo.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>And he started dialing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin squeaked and dropped his face into the pillow. But his hips couldn’t stop rolling against the bed. The fabric of his underwear--the ones Margo had for all intents and purposes purchased for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quentin--</span>
  </em>
  <span>rasping against the sheets, deliciously soft and addictive to press into. The elastic of the legs cutting in just a little and he was still sore but the rhythm he was building was so good, made him tremble all over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Made him say, “Yeah. Fuck. Green.” When Eliot held up the phone and asked him if he was okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This is a professional work call, after all. Don’t you dare come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin dropped his head into the pillow and groaned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margo picked up in the second ring, thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot hadn’t called her office number. Quentin didn’t know what he would have done if </span>
  <em>
    <span>Todd</span>
  </em>
  <span> had been the one to pick up the phone while he could feel sweat gathering along the backs of his knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, baby.” Margo answered. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She was on speakerphone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bambi!” Eliot answered. Casual as could be. “So I’ve got someone here to talk to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She chuckled on the other end of the phone and Quentin fully turned his face into the pillow, his stomach in knots. Full of that now familiar blend of hot embarrassment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aww, has he been a good boy for you, El?” Margo asked. Quentin </span>
  <em>
    <span>stilled.</span>
  </em>
  <span> She knew. She fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> somehow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Such a good boy.” Eliot answered, laying it on thick. “Keep going.” He said. Quentin shuddered and despite everything, rolled his hips back down into the bed again and again, trying to keep himself slow, steady. “Thanks for the supplies by the way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like I would let you fucking languish in Brooklyn.” Margo snorted. Was she sitting at her desk with her feet kicked up on the glass surface? “I hope you don’t mind I threw in some fun stuff--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course!” Eliot smirked, winked at Quentin and he had to hide again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Under the covers, Eliot couldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> anything except the movement of his body. For better and worse. It made Quentin feel like he was trying to hide something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--Quentin don’t you want to thank Margo for her help?” Eliot repeated himself, cutting through the fog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Eliot’s hand was in his hair and pulling him with gentle force away from the pillow. Quentin gasped, holding himself up more on his elbows from the movement. He shuddered against the bed, leaking in his underwear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck--thank you!” Quentin somehow got the words out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sweetie, you sound all distracted.” Margo cooed at him, all syrupy sweet. “Should pay more attention. Wouldn’t want your Daddy to have to punish you now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot burst out laughing, “Funny you should mention that--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook his head against the grip of Eliot’s hand in his hair, looked at him pleadingly. He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eliot regaling Margo with that. Not right now. “Please.” He said quietly, sure that it was still picked up on the phone on Margo’s end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot nodded and leaned over, giving him a quick kiss, letting go of his hair. He pulled Quentin in closer, his head resting now on Eliot’s chest, one arm clamped around him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>hold on</span>
  </em>
  <span> while the tension grew and grew inside him. He pressed his forehead hard to Eliot, his legs were quaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s been nothing but perfect for me.” Eliot praised him. Quentin bit down on the fabric of Eliot’s pajamas until he remembered </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking Dolce and Gabbana</span>
  </em>
  <span> and had to release them. But then there was nowhere for his whines to go but out into the open air. “And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>looks--</span>
  </em>
  <span>well, suffice to say you have excellent taste, Bambi. You should see this sometime.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love an invitation, </span>
  <em>
    <span>but</span>
  </em>
  <span> seems to me your boy’s been quiet on the matter. I think </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> should be the one to say it.” Margo purred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin panted against Eliot’s chest, shivering all over this was--he was gonna come any moment. “I--um.” Quentin began, and really </span>
  <em>
    <span>what a start.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I want--want you to show me, w-what it’s like. What you two are like--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Working together?” Eliot filled in when Quentin trailed off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded against him, gave a great big shudder and flopped onto his back onto his discarded pillow, fisting the covers with his hands and pushing them down around his waist. It was too fucking hot </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>kept his hands off his dick, which was just so hard and aching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, please.” Quentin gasped, staring up at the ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not the kind of begging I was after, Coldwater.” Margo growled. Quentin jolted. Eliot laughed and pressed a hand to his chest, soothing him. “You want me to take time out of my day to take you down, you’d better try harder.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin gulped. His stomach kept tensing, all of him still thrumming with the need to come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Margo, would you </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> dom me with Eliot?” Quentin asked, slowly stringing words together. Eliot made a rough sound beside him. “I want you. I want both of you. Want to show you how good I can be--what you can make me do. Please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baby boy.” Margo said, this time a bit softer. “That’s more like it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll consider it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> We’ll talk when you’re more </span>
  <em>
    <span>articulate.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Okay, sweetie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded and then realized she couldn’t see, “Yes. Thanks. I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>work stuff</span>
  </em>
  <span> to talk about too--tomorrow.” He ran a hand over his face. “I can’t um, can’t talk business when this is--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow. Lunch.” Margo put in. “You’re paying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin caught his breath through the rest of the conversation, Margo asking if Eliot wanted her to send a car to come get him that night. Quentin made an annoyed sound, burrowed closer into his side so Eliot answered, “No, I think I’ll stay another night at Netherfield Park until I’m truly recovered. The staff are taking such good care of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin bit him through his ridiculously expensive pajamas. Eliot squawked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god! I have to go, there’s a rowdy boy in need of my discipline.” Eliot hung up on Margo. “You’re so in for it, Peach.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin shook his head, “I didn’t come! Look, I didn’t. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>all that while my brain broke in half--never to be mended.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think you should come till next Wednesday. Seven days. Think you can make it?” Eliot peeled him away from his body, onto his back, captured Quentin’s wrists and pinned them easily next to his head, looming over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin narrowed his eyes. “A week? I hardly think it would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> difficult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Liar. Pants on fire.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>really?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really.” Quentin challenged. “Like I said, whatever you think I deserve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliot narrowed his eyes, considering. “I think If I gave you what I think you deserve, there’s a very real chance none of our friends would ever see us again--that sounds like criminal activity. Let me take that again--give me a week. Save it up for me. And I’ll make it worth your while. Whatever you want. You’ll have days and </span>
  <em>
    <span>days</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get that mind of yours all stirred up with something you really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> want. Go on, wrap me around your finger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin melted bonelessly down against the bed. His dick gave a half hearted pulse at Eliot’s words. “I want a lot of stuff, Eliot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm,” Eliot leaned down and pressed the side of his face to Quentin’s, “Whatever it is, we’ll be sure to stretch out beforehand, so I can take care of </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> until you can’t take it anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin groaned. “Deal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just two days later, Quentin was spread out over Eliot’s lap on the couch, riding him on a Saturday afternoon, going, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Please, please please.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>regretting every decision he had ever made in his life that brought him to this moment, begging and pleading to come just </span>
  <em>
    <span>once.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Only for Eliot to take his face in his hands, pull him close and quietly whisper, “No, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>such </span>
  </em>
  <span>a long way to go.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you sooooo much for reading! I had a blast writing this chapter, so let me know in the comments what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. A Less Than Graceful Fall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As always, thanks to Hoko_Onchi for all the hand holding and encouragement.</p><p>FYI, this chapter was edited to remove a mention of the company Bad Dragon, as I have been informed of their bad business practices and transphobia. And that's just not cool, folks.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Eliot felt a guilty wave of relief the moment he walked through the door and Quentin looked up from his phone, doing that little double take of, “Hey. <em> Hey,” </em>looking furtively around the small tasteful waiting room of his therapist’s office like he’d been caught red-handed stealing a Faberge Egg. Like he clearly hadn’t been expecting Eliot.</p><p>But for all that Quentin looked a little shocked and not the good kind of surprised, Eliot was a great big mess of nerves, had been for the entire time that he’s been in the Lyft from his apartment. And here was Quentin, for all intents and purposes safe and sound, if lacking his usual enthusiastic greeting. Something prickled in the back of his mind.</p><p>“Hey you.” Eliot said, shutting the door behind him.</p><p>“Hey.” Quentin said again, blinking rapidly. His knee rocking up and down so fast it was a blur of movement.</p><p>“Hi.” Eliot answered, stepping over to the chair beside Quentin’s. It was a nice little room, with a salt lamp in the corner and a basket of little metal puzzles on the coffee table between all four chairs. Quentin was plastered into the corner, leaning just about as close to the wall as he could without becoming part of it. “Todd called me.”</p><p>Suffice to say that when he’d picked up the phone with a, “Good morning, my sweet Bambi.” the <em> last </em> person he’d been expecting was Todd on the other line. Even if he was her assistant, Margo preferred to connect her own personal calls.</p><p>“Hey--uh. It’s <em> Todd.” </em> He’d said. “So Quentin called and--”</p><p>Quentin blanched, picking at his thumbnail, looking <em> deflated. </em>Sort of boneless in a bad way. “I called for Margo. He answered. She was in a meeting.”</p><p>“Yeah--I got that part.” Eliot tried to keep his voice stable. “He seemed to think that <em> I </em>was probably the person you wanted to call.”</p><p>Quentin heaved a big sigh and looked up at the ceiling. “I didn’t want to call <em> anyone. </em> Heather--my therapist--she thought it might be better if someone took me home.” He was looking anywhere but at Eliot, it was <em> awful. </em>“You know, I used to get nosebleeds? Terrible ones. Like out of nowhere. This feels like that, waiting for someone to come pick me up. Fucking Todd.”</p><p>“Don’t be mad at Todd.” Even if Todd was kind of an easy person to blame for things, the guy had good instincts. Eliot picked his hand up and went to drop it on Quentin’s knee. But he wasn’t <em> sure </em> about that right now. He’d have to untangle a few things before he could let himself wrap Quentin up in his arms and not let him go for a spell. “You didn’t call me.” He kept it gentle. Not an accusation.</p><p>Quentin’s knee jiggled even faster, a cold sick feeling wormed its way into Eliot’s stomach. “I didn’t want to--uh, bother you? At work. I guess. Since last week, you took time off, and it’s stupid. I can just catch a train home.”</p><p>“Baby,” Eliot said. It was just them in the room. Two closed doors, one leading to the offices of the therapists who were on the sign on the door, Eliot supposed. They should probably get out of here before another client arrived. “You know you’re not a bother.” Quentin shook his head minutely. “I’m between big projects right now--and it’s not like either of us can’t work from home. Are you okay?”</p><p>“It’s stupid.” Quentin shook his head, “I get caught up in these loops sometimes? I had one. I’m <em> having one. </em> It’s not like--it just happened really fast? Like one second, I was fine and then I just felt--I didn’t feel <em> good. </em> Like gross, and <em> cold-- </em>sad for no reason. I don’t know.” Eliot took a risk and dropped his hand over Quentin’s knee, rubbing over the sharpness of his kneecap. Quentin twitched. “Heather wanted me to call someone.”</p><p>“So, Margo.” Eliot filled in. Quentin was repeating himself. Visibly nervous, shaking. A very different creature than the one who had kissed him goodbye no fewer than six times at Eliot’s door on Saturday evening because he’d <em> needed a day to get work done </em> and he had some kind of Skype date with Julia on Sunday. </p><p>The same guy who’d proclaimed that everything had been smoothed over with his book and the TV show since Eliot had thoroughly cocked everything up last week. Margo hadn’t told anyone about his plans to pull out. (And thank <em> god </em>Eliot’s aforementioned cockup hadn’t resulted in the world missing out on Q’s little TV show. All those book clubs and rabid fans of his deserved to see their faves fucking on TV.) That very same Quentin who’d begged so sweetly for Eliot to fuck him even if it meant he didn’t get to come--all petulant and wrung out after--who’d clung to him and wrapped Eliot up in his warm embrace until they were both sweating and Eliot’s hands left fingertip bruises on Quentin’s hips from guiding him in his lap.</p><p>That Quentin, the one who’d been ostensibly broken up with and then made up with the same man in one day, who he was currently engaging in a week long orgasm denial scene with.</p><p>When you spelled it out, it didn’t look <em> great. </em></p><p>“I think you’re dropping, Quentin.” Quentin blinked up at him from his crouch in the chair, just all rumpled. “Did you read about that in one of your books?”</p><p>Quentin nodded stiffly, then his eyebrows pulled together and he let out a watery breath.</p><p>“I did.” Quentin nodded, playing like he wasn’t actually crying at the moment. “I didn’t think--we <em> did </em>aftercare.”</p><p>“You haven’t done anything wrong.” Eliot said, rubbing his hand over the top of Quentin’s thigh. Nothing too high, just trying to get some comforting touch going.</p><p>“I don’t feel good.” Quentin repeated his phrase from earlier.</p><p>“Right, okay. Well we can try to do something about that. Come home with me? Let me spoil you.”</p><p>Eliot hoped he would opt for Eliot’s place, a relatively quick cab ride in comparison to getting over to Brooklyn.</p><p>“I have Martin.” Quentin sniffed. “I can’t--”</p><p>“Todd can go feed the fucking cat.” Eliot pressed. “I care more about you, Q. Come home with me. Let’s get you out of here.”</p><p>Quentin nodded his head minutely and let Eliot bundle him up in his coat, carrying Quentin’s bag for him when he went to reach for it. Eliot kept an arm around his shoulder throughout the silent cab ride, a vastly different experience than they’d had making out like teenagers on Friday night after their date. The one where they’d fully planned on enjoying the chocolate souffle but then had to leave re:making out in a cab like teenagers.</p><p>Eliot busied himself with getting Quentin up into the apartment, furtively texting Margo to make herself scarce for the day--Quentin probably wouldn’t want Margo around if he was feeling particularly tender and dropping. </p><p>Plus, Eliot was fond of nothing but truly having Quentin to himself, even if that meant that having a dull-eyed boy standing nervously in the entryway not really making any effort to take off his shoes or his jacket.</p><p>“Did you eat breakfast?” Eliot asked, pushing back Quentin’s hair. Quentin shook his head, eyes darting around the apartment. “Okay. I’ll make you something, how about that?”</p><p>“You don’t have to.” Quentin said weakly, kind of monotone.</p><p>“Yeah, I do.” Eliot replied. He bullied Quentin out of his jacket and shoes. “I want to. You don’t feel good right now, let me take care of you.”</p><p>“I, um--” Quentin opened his mouth and snapped it closed, “really, Eliot. I’m fine. I could just go take a nap somewhere.”</p><p>
  <em> Somewhere. </em>
</p><p>“Or you could eat a little for me and see how you feel about that nap once you change into something a little more comfy.” Eliot offered, straightening the edges of Quentin’s black button down. “You’re shaking, Q.”</p><p>“I am?”</p><p>Eliot dropped a kiss onto the top of his head, nodding against his crown. He felt heavy with nerves and worry. Why hadn’t Quentin <em> called him? </em>The thought of him waiting there in that empty office made Eliot want to tear his hair out.</p><p>“Yes, baby. So it’s eggs, juice, and pajamas for you.”</p><p>Quentin shivered against him. He made a contrite little sound and finally said, “Do we have to talk yet? Can we not? I just did for like an hour. It’s <em> a lot. </em> I’m a lot.”</p><p>Eliot squeezed him tighter. Quentin’s arms were still at his sides. Eliot grew a little worried at that. His Quentin was known to be grabby like a monkey at times.</p><p>“Yeah, we can wait.” Eliot told him. Quentin was a tense line against him. “Let’s wait.”</p><p>He let Eliot pull him into his bedroom and sat quietly on the bed while Eliot unearthed some of his cold weather loungewear; cosy cashmere socks, buttery soft joggers, another modal v-neck for Quentin to steal, and cardigan that was pretty oversized on Eliot, the sleeves of which would probably result in sweater paws on Quentin. Eliot left momentarily to wash his hands, collect a damp washcloth from the bathroom.</p><p>Eliot dropped the stack of clothing on the bed beside Quentin upon his return, went about undressing him--gently batting Quentin’s hands away--when Quentin hastily went about it himself, looking nervous and uncoordinated. When Quentin couldn’t manage with his shaking hands. He passed the buttons of his shirt through the holes and asked Quentin what he wanted for breakfast, if he’d like scrambled or fried eggs.</p><p>“Whatever is fine.” Quentin waved a hand. Bare chested in Eliot’s bedroom, he looked pale and slumped. His shoulders even more of an exaggerated slope than usual.</p><p>He raised his arms for Eliot to put the shirt on him and yes, he was positively swimming in the large cardigan. Eliot set about carefully folding up the sleeves until Quentin’s hands peeked out again, kissed him on the cheek, fixed his messy hair.</p><p>Eliot told him they’d decide on the eggs together when they got to the kitchen, working on the buttons of Quentin’s jeans, pulling them down his legs. Eliot retrieved the joggers from the pile and held them out, ready to work them up Quentin’s legs.</p><p>But then Quentin made a weak, sad sound and Eliot paused, “What is it, Q?”</p><p>“Can I wear <em> all </em> your clothes?” Quentin asked, twin spots of pink appearing on the apples of his cheeks. “They’re just so much more comfortable. Soft. Is that--”</p><p>Quentin cut himself off, but the implication was clear. Was it weird for him to want to wear Eliot’s underwear? No. No weirder than the giddy swell of pride Eliot felt when he turned back around from the dresser holding a pair of his silk boxers--maroon with a paisley pattern--and the corner of Quentin’s mouth drew up for the first time that day.</p><p>“I can’t believe you actually own all this stuff.” Quentin muttered, slipping off the bed to stand shyly, waiting.</p><p>“I like nice things. Like you, you’re my nicest thing.” Eliot commented, gentled both his hands up Quentin’s thighs, running against the grain of his leg hair. Quentin shivered again and awkwardly crossed his ankles like a rare bird perched on the end of a delicate branch, just making things more difficult for himself. Eliot loved his solid, pale thighs, how soft they were under his hands, how easily they marked.</p><p>Eliot knelt down on the ground--Quentin made a worried sound--which was <em> fine. </em> His knees didn’t <em> love </em> him for it. But it was only for a moment, so he could undress Quentin, pull down the waistband of his utilitarian little grey briefs. Perfectly fine, but there was room for improvement. “I think you deserve to have nice things too, Q. Not just borrowed pretty things--though I love putting you in my clothes. We can get you some soft things too, in your size.”</p><p>Quentin looked a little paralyzed at that, clamping his teeth around his thumbnail as Eliot lowered the briefs and Quentin’s dick was starting to get hard already, his balls larger than normal. Anticipatory. He’d been so hard against Eliot on the couch, in his lap. Begging to come, going all liquid when Eliot had told him, <em> “No.” </em></p><p>Now, he was clearly a little desperate already, and not in a good way.</p><p>“Sorry--” Quentin whimpered. He threw a hand over his eyes. “I can, it’s fine. Sorry.”</p><p>Eliot shushed him, rucked up the T-shirt and kissed across the soft fur of Quentin’s belly, took his hips in his hands and held him firmly in place, backed up against the bed.</p><p>“You’ve been so, <em> so </em> good for me.” Eliot said. “Waiting so long. I think you should come now.”</p><p>Quentin made a high, broken sound. Eliot watched his cock twitch despite Quentin’s protests, growing harder and harder at nothing so much as Eliot being in its vicinity. Which, ordinarily would have been incredibly sexy, but not when Quentin’s face was all pinched with worry.</p><p>“It’s not time, I can do it. I can wait--like we were planning.” Quentin said, voice high and panicked.</p><p>“Baby, you’re going through sub drop. Nothing is wrong. But your body’s coming down from this weekend--this whole week probably,” Eliot explained carefully, not touching Quentin’s dick. He’d wait for permission. “Now isn’t the time to hold out on yourself. I can see how stressed this is making you, so I’m calling it off.” Quentin shook his head in his hands. “Let me give you whatever you want today; let me spoil you.”</p><p>“I don’t deserve it.” Quentin said softly.</p><p><em> “Hey.” </em> Eliot heaved himself up off the floor, resting his hands on Quentin’s wrists to try and get him to look at him. “No. You deserve to be happy. You deserve <em> everything. </em> This isn’t you talking. It’s the drop, makes you feel awful, like you did something wrong. But it’s not real. I promise. Will you sit with me?”</p><p>Quentin nodded softly, buried his head in Eliot’s chest so that he couldn’t see his face.</p><p>“Come on, come here.” Eliot wrapped him up in his arms, sat down on the bed and managed to coax Quentin up there with him, not in his lap, but as close to it as he could get, his hips right up against Eliot’s thighs, Quentin’s legs thrown over his lap. Quentin leaned into Eliot’s chest, a hand clutching his waistcoat tightly. “Whatever it’s telling you, it’s not real. Let me take this burden off you, Peach. So you don’t have to worry about it.”</p><p>“I c-can’t even--” Quentin began, all hitching sobs and Eliot felt like he was in a vacuum of anguish. These were not the happy fun tears of Quentin glassy-eyed and sweet post-orgasm.</p><p>“Would it help if it was an order?” Eliot asked into Quentin’s hair.</p><p>Quentin nodded immediately into his chest, pressed himself closer. With his knees all bent, nearly against his chest, Eliot couldn't quite make out Quentin’s cock between them. Eliot’s own laid soft against his thigh. He didn’t like seeing Quentin so out of sorts, feeling like Eliot had put him there without a way back.</p><p>But this he could do, Eliot could focus on a task, the task of making Quentin come and then getting him into pajamas, getting him fed.</p><p>“Thank you. Now, are you my good boy?” Eliot asked, Quentin sniffed. Eliot squeezed his body reassuringly. “You are, you’re my good boy. So you’re gonna let me get a hand on you and you’re gonna come for me whenever you feel it. No holding back. Can I touch you?”</p><p>“Yes.” Quentin wormed in closer, nodded into his chest. Eliot held him there, taking a deep breath of his own.</p><p>Eliot eased his knees down and reached down by touch alone, wrapping Quentin’s hard, leaking dick up in his hand. Quentin shook against him, making these pained little sounds as Eliot worked him over.</p><p>“You deserve this for making me feel so good. For being so patient, so giving,” Eliot said quietly between just the two of them. Quentin was so hard and slick already with precome, holding onto Eliot so tightly. “You looked so fucking sexy riding me on the couch. Taking all of me all the way down.” Quentin whimpered, thighs trembling. “The way you’d sink down all the way and just <em> grind </em> these hips into me, letting me feel all of you. <em> Fuck. </em> It was so hot. You like that?”</p><p>Quentin nodded weakly, “Yeah. So full--love it.”</p><p>“Of course you do. I’ll give it to you, whenever you want. Fuck you so good next time, let you come as much as you want.” Eliot picked up the pace on his strokes, twisting his wrist when he reached the crown.</p><p>Quentin hissed, his body coiled tightly, then he was coming.</p><p>“There you go, come on. Come for me, Quentin.” Eliot said into Quentin’s hair. Quentin shuddered and cried out, pulsing under Eliot’s hand. Quentin made an anguished, broken sound. “Perfect, that’s perfect, baby. Let it all out now. You’ve been so good for me.”</p><p>Quentin spilled over his hand and wrist, his own thighs. Somehow Eliot’s shirt made it out unscathed.</p><p>“Eliot--” Quentin sank somehow more into Eliot’s body, his hand reached down and grasped Eliot’s wrist. He made a questioning sound.</p><p>“It’s okay. Whatever you want, remember?” Eliot told him softly, kissing over Quentin’s hairline as Quentin licked Eliot’s hand clean. From jump, Quentin had pretty much calmed down whenever he had something in his mouth to focus on, this seemed more self soothing than seductive. Though, Quentin had <em> also </em> done this while coyly eyeing Eliot as a tease. For now he was just happy he could give Quentin this. A deep, rumpling affection bloomed in Eliot’s chest. Thrums of arousal coursed through him as Quentin drew his fingers one by one into the wet heat of his mouth, chasing the taste of himself. “You’re so sweet, Q. I’m so lucky.”</p><p>Quentin didn’t say anything, but eventually he could be coaxed into letting Eliot run the damp cloth over his face and then between his legs.</p><p>“Are you sore at all?” Eliot asked, peeking around Quentin’s hips over his ass. There was no evidence of bruising from the spanking earlier that week. He expected that Quentin might still be feeling a bit tender from riding Eliot on Saturday.</p><p>Quentin shrugged, small.</p><p>He had a faraway look in his eyes as Eliot pulled the boxers up his legs and then put him in the joggers, rolling the socks up over his feet, squeezing his ankles when he was all done.</p><p>Eliot talked to him, kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation about everything and nothing. He told Quentin about the drama on the latest season of the Real Housewives of New York, innocuous stuff that had no real bearing on their lives as Eliot whisked eggs with milk--Quentin had expressed no opinion about either fried or scrambled eggs, so Eliot settled on an omelette--and then sliced strawberries, put brown bread in the toaster.</p><p>Quentin ate what Eliot put in front of him. They sat at the dining room table, Quentin slumped over somewhat. Eliot gave him a small glass of orange juice, kept refilling it whenever it was empty.</p><p>“Is there anything you want me to do?” Eliot asked, rinsing the plates. Quentin followed him into the kitchen, stood with his back pressed against the fridge.</p><p>“I just feel so drained.” Quentin offered. “I don’t know why this is happening.”</p><p>Eliot turned off the tap, “It just happens, more often when you’ve been sceneing with someone for a long time--it gets more intimate. You delve into more intense things. You’re riding high and then the endorphins go away.”</p><p>“I, uh--I was talking about California, my book tour?” Quentin offered. “I felt really good until I <em> didn’t. </em> I realized how much I was gonna miss you, and it’s only two weeks? But then I thought, that was stupid and that I was being needy, like why would you even miss me when I’m not even a good sub and I’m kinda useless as a boyfriend.” Quentin raised and dropped his hands weakly, the sleeves of the sweater covering everything but his fingertips.</p><p>“Okay, so you’re my <em> boyfriend </em> first. That’s my priority here. Everything else, that comes second.” Eliot walked over, pulled Quentin in close. “I would never think that stuff about you. That’s not even a possibility. I need you to tell me if this happens again, okay? Let me help. As your boyfriend and as the guy who spanked you last week. Which--wasn’t a great idea on my part. I think we both got swept up in how intense everything was.”</p><p>Quentin nodded against him, wrapped his arms around Eliot’s back and face-planted into his chest. “Yeah. Yes. Okay.” Quentin’s voice was muffled against his shirt. “I knew it wasn’t--it wasn’t rational when it--the drop started happening, but I still couldn’t stop it.”</p><p>“Quentin, I’m not gonna lie to you, you fly for me so easily, it means we need to work together to teach you how to land more gracefully.” Eliot rubbed his cheek against the top of Quentin’s head. “Just know that I’m with you regardless of if you want to scene with me. You don’t have to. I’ll take you however you want me.”</p><p>Quentin pushed Eliot away, enough that worry spiked through him, but it was just enough so that Quentin could look up at Eliot with a determined little frown on his face, “No, I want to, want to keep going. I need that from you too.”</p><p>“Alright.” Eliot nodded. “But I think for a while, you’re just gonna have to let me be sweet with you. I touched on some things last week that I wasn’t intending on.” He steered them over to the sectional and sat down, gathered Quentin up against his side. “I think it’s something we can revisit again later, when things have settled down, but I’m not gonna call you bad or make you feel like you're a bad boy.”</p><p>Quentin drew in a quick breath, “Yeah, but I can take it.”</p><p>“Well, I <em> can’t.” </em>Eliot muttered, dropping a blanket over Quentin. “I don’t want to put you in a headspace where you feel like you fucked up so badly that I would leave you, especially in the middle of a scene. Let’s just try positive reinforcement for a while, okay? Stuff you really like.”</p><p>“You spoil me.” Quentin said softly, he dropped his head onto Eliot’s shoulder and nuzzled in.</p><p>“I like spoiling you. I think you’d find it overbearing how much I’d like to take care of things for you.” Eliot confided. “And I haven’t had the opportunity to do that. All of my partners have been a causal thing, a couple of sessions or one-offs.”</p><p>“You want that? Really?” Quentin sounded curious. “What does that look like?”</p><p>Eliot snorted, “Well, I hate to use the term ‘kept boy’ but it’s apt. I’d give you whatever you wanted, whatever you need. Pretty much lean into all of my service top tendencies since I get off so much of giving you exactly what you want.” Quentin made a quiet little laugh. “Yeah I’m not just a pushover, Peach. I don’t get off making you feel pain or fear. Nothing is hotter to me than fulfilling what you want; so if you want to be good, then you’re <em> the best </em> and if you wanna be bad, I’ll make sure you feel that too. Just not for a bit.”</p><p>“That makes it seem like I have way more power here than I do.” Quentin said, contemplative.</p><p>“Oh baby,” Eliot dropped his cheek to the top of Quentin’s head. “You have <em> all </em> the power, you’re the one <em> letting </em>me do this to you, with you. If you don’t want it, we don’t do it. That’s how this works.”</p><p>“Oh.” Quentin said, quietly. “So If I was worried about leaving for so long--missing you.”</p><p>“Then I’d make sure we set up a time to Facetime while you’re gone.” Eliot filled in, “Send you away with your bags all nicely packed along with a few extras to play with since I won’t be there to touch you, call you every night and tell you how much I missed having you in my bed.”</p><p>Quentin shivered. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“I think I’d like that. It’s not too much?” Quentin asked.</p><p>“Baby, if you let me, I would probably keep you in my bed forever. So, no--It’s not too much to want that. Because I want it, too.”</p><p>“Huh.” Quentin said. He was quiet for a long time. “I can, um, I don’t really need you to make me feel like I’ve been bad. I just kinda liked it. It was a big emotional release to feel like I was bad and then I made it up to you by being good, that you forgave me. But I think I'd like to see what it looks like if you did the other stuff, <em> really </em> took care of me.”</p><p>Eliot totally gave himself away with his excitement, “Yeah, baby?”</p><p>Quentin chuckled under his breath. “We both know I’m not <em> great </em> with the whole being doted on thing.”</p><p>“You can tell me to back off.” Eliot reminded him, “Not just if we’re playing, but also if you just need some time, some space.”</p><p>“Okay--sometimes I do need that.” Quentin agreed. “But you can want stuff too, El. I want to give you things too.”</p><p>Eliot growled, “Yes, you’ve pretty much eclipsed every fantasy I’ve had about you, Quentin. There’s still so much I want to do with you.”</p><p>“Jesus, I should just retire and live off my residuals checks, let you ruin me.”</p><p>“You’re testing every ounce of patience I have, Peach.” Eliot kissed the crown of his head. “Let’s just focus on right now. Let me get you back up to baseline and feeling okay. Then I can tell you all about how I’ve been wanting to bend you over my dining room table.”</p><p>“Oh my god, I must really be out of it if a nap sounds better than that.” Quentin grumbled.</p><p>He let Eliot stroke his hair, turn on the TV onto some interior design competition show and cuddle him close as ever. Eliot kept Quentin close, until eventually he slipped down and rested his head in Eliot’s lap and all there was to do was smile down at him and think about how lucky he was, that Quentin trusted him with this.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>Quentin seemed pretty content to let himself be spoiled throughout the day. He woke an hour or so later, rolling over to stick his face in Eliot’s stomach with a groan, curious hands curling out from under the blanket to paw at him. He was wiggly. He was cuddly. He was kind of a menace.</p><p>Eliot felt much better about the world<em> . </em></p><p>It was a moot point already but Eliot proclaimed it to be a ‘Mental Health Day’ and absolutely forbade any actual work--not that it was a <em> huge </em> sacrifice, but Quentin looked concerned.</p><p>“Fine--if you have to drag your laptop out, I guess I can rub your feet while you write.” Eliot said around lunch, handing over a BLT and some sliced apples over to Quentin who’d happily stayed on the couch--which was fine, as he couldn’t get underfoot nearly as much--while Eliot made their food.</p><p>Quentin narrowed his eyes at Eliot. “Why would you be doing that anyway?”</p><p>“Oh my <em> dear </em>Q.” Eliot pinned him with a serious expression despite the sandwich in his hands. “Because I want to.”</p><p>And once again Quentin had looked skeptical but he’d pretty much turned into goo on the other end of the couch while Eliot rubbed his feet a little while later. The constant click-clacking of his fingers on his keys dwindling to nothing over the course of a few minutes until Quentin had slipped down the pillow he’d been propped up on, pushing his feet more securely into Eliot’s lap.</p><p>“See, it’s nice.” Eliot commented, knowing full well it was hell of a lot better than <em> nice. </em></p><p>“Uh-huh.” Quentin slurred, carefully closing his laptop and transferring it to the coffee table before he risked it sliding off his lap and onto the floor.</p><p>“I bet you’d like a hand massage too.” Eliot told him, knowingly. “Working on a computer all day. At least you have that standing desk.”</p><p>“For all the good it does me <em> now.” </em> Quentin’s eyes crossed as Eliot pressed both his thumbs into the arch of Quentin’s foot and eased a knot of tension. He made a content half moan, half giggle. Eliot kept an eye on Quentin as he worked, noting how he gradually relaxed more fully into the couch cushions.</p><p>“Oh, one day isn’t going to break your stride, Coldwater.” Eliot said. “I know you worked pretty much all day yesterday.”</p><p>“Mmmm,” Quentin nodded.</p><p>Eliot continued working in silence, eventually dropping one foot into his lap in favor of the next one. Quentin treated him to some pretty great drawn out sounds of contentment, at one point stretching out so a few inches of his stomach peeked out from under his shirt.</p><p>It was a pretty great way to spend the afternoon, especially when Quentin made an annoyed sound and ended up plopping back over into Eliot’s side once he’d put Quentin’s socks back on.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>After much discussion about Google Docs, Imgur, and some obscure website Eliot had never heard of, they decided on a Pinterest board, “Aren’t those for intense women who run bible study?” Quentin had asked as they set their accounts up side by side on the couch.</p><p>“Yeah, and those women are organized as <em> fuck.” </em> Eliot had replied, knocking him in the shoulder.</p><p>They both set up secret accounts under alias names because, “The last thing I need is for my readers to see this shit.” Quentin proclaimed.</p><p>And thus Quentin’s ‘Kinky Sex Board’ became a reality. They figured he could pin things there he came across on the internet for further discussion/inspiration. Stuff he wanted to try or just found really hot. And it turned out that Quentin already followed a bunch of erotic photography blogs as ‘research’ so within just an hour that night, Eliot’s phone was pinging with notifications while Quentin tapped away between his legs when he <em> should </em> have been watching Great British Bakeoff with Eliot.</p><p>All it really took was a quick glance for Eliot to feel a little hot under the collar when Quentin went to go grab them a bottle of wine and some glasses while they waited for the sushi to arrive. It was all pretty classy, lots of black and white photos with interesting composition. All of it pretty hot--some of it was a little surprising. There was some predicament bondage and a lot of <em> ropes. </em> Rope harnesses in bright colors with flowers stuck in here and there, turning the subject of the photo into even more of a work of art. Intense closeup shots of just a messy mouth and collarbone. There were <em> gifs. </em>Quite a lot of gifs. All moving in their tiny repetitive loops of thrusting and writhing--</p><p>“You have a <em> look </em> on your face.” Quentin said, suddenly appearing with the bottle of wine and glasses.</p><p>“Just getting a true look into the fascinating mind of Quentin Coldwater.” Eliot pulled him down into his side, accepting a glass.</p><p>“Yeah--you make any discoveries?”</p><p>Eliot hummed, pretty much stuck his hand right under Quentin’s shirt to rest against his stomach because it was a warm place to be.</p><p>“You wanna be tied up.” Eliot answered bluntly. Quentin choked on his wine, spluttered and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of the cardigan.</p><p>“You really jumped right in there, didn’t you?” Quentin said. His cheeks pinking up.</p><p>“I find a direct approach to be the best.” Eliot shrugged, secretly delighted that he’d basically had his suspicions confirmed. “Would you let me tie you up?”</p><p>Quentin’s pupils <em> blew </em> and he nodded, taking a sip of his wine. “Do you like doing that to people?”</p><p>Eliot nodded. He liked composing a scene, using his eye for detail. It was a different kind of high when it came to ropes. Less of a frenetic building of energies than a sustained, low rumble.</p><p>“It’s hot.” Eliot said, which seemed like real understatement to his own ears. “I’ve played with people who don’t want anything else. Not even to come. Sometimes they even kept their clothes on. It was <em>intense. </em>Rope bottoms are <em>intense</em>. It bears repeating.”</p><p>Quentin was <em> transfixed.  </em></p><p>“I’ve taken classes with some people who really know their shit, seen some suspension demonstrations--even self suspension. I’m not that advanced.” Eliot confided and because they were <em> there </em> as friends, he added, “That’s Margo’s shit. I’ve seen her rig up some <em> wild </em> stuff at parties.” And maybe it was a little too much like gilding the lily, but then Eliot added in a quiet, confidential tone. “She’s tied me up a couple times. Not suspension or anything, but it was a <em> trip. </em>Felt like I was kinda separated from my body but also really grounded in it? She said it was the only time I’ve ever been quiet longer than a couple minutes, that it was creepy.”</p><p>“Sounds like you’ve done that a lot for her.” Quentin said, mouth quirked to the side. “Like, you’ve said she spanked you before <em> and </em> she’s tied you up. Is that a <em> thing </em> for you?”</p><p>Eliot shrugged, “It <em> can </em>be. Margo is really the only person I would trust to dom me.” Quentin narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m not nearly as well behaved as you are, Peach. Sometimes that’s just how it goes.”</p><p>“Huh.” Quentin took a big sip of his wine with a considering sound. “Can we try that? The topes. Not the suspension part, and I’d want you to do it; would you tie me up sometime?”</p><p>Eliot nodded, his cock stirred in his pants at the thought.</p><p>“We’ll have to agree on a day, probably on a weekend.” Eliot said, “There’s some prep involved and I don’t want to get burnt out on you, so it’ll probably be a lunchtime affair.”</p><p>“Naturally.” Quentin joked. “Reubens and ropes.”</p><p>They ate sushi side by side on the couch that evening. Later there was a knock on the door, Todd dropped by to let them know that he’d fed Martin and showed them both about a dozen selfies with the cat, who looked miserable.</p><p>Quentin thanked him profusely and Todd just waved a hand, “It was no biggie. I live a couple blocks away.”</p><p>After they shut the door, Quentin turned to Eliot and asked, “Why the hell is he back in Manhattan if he lives in Brooklyn?”</p><p>“Ah,” Eliot said conspiratorially, steering Quentin back towards the couch. “Probably to see Margo.”</p><p>Quentin sighed, “Woah, well he looked pretty chipper for a guy who was still working at 9 p.m.”</p><p>“Well, that’s <em> Todd,” </em>Eliot waved a hand, knowing full well that any of the work he was doing over there at Margo’s place was likely being done in a ball gag. “Anything for Margo.”</p><p>“You know--” Quentin lowered his voice like there was anyone else there on the couch with them, “Not that I believe at all in the concept of categorizing people based on outward appearance, but that’s a guy who could probably benefit from being called ‘Good boy’ every once and awhile.”</p><p>Eliot chuckled into his wine glass, actually having to bite his lip to keep from actually cackling.</p><p>“What?” Quentin sat up on his knees beside Eliot and prodded him in the shoulder. “Tell me what’s so funny.”</p><p>Eliot set his wine glass aside with a sigh, taking Quentin’s hands in his own.</p><p>“Quentin--he gets <em> paid </em> to be called a ‘Good boy’ for his mistress.” Eliot said. He tried not to sound <em> too </em> patronizing. But Todd had ‘ <em> Thank you mistress, may I have another?’ </em> practically tattooed across his ass. Quentin’s mouth dropped open. “He’s a great assistant. But before that, well he just really gets off on being of <em> service, </em> you know? You should actually give him a call about it. Todd’s had to work through some shit--stuff that might be somewhat if not directly related to some things <em> you’ve </em>brought up.”</p><p>Quentin titled his head to Eliot, looking confused. “Come again?”</p><p>“It’s his story to tell.” Eliot shrugged. “And he’s pretty open about it--he’s open about <em> everything, </em> honestly. But the guy’s gone through a pretty <em> wild </em>ride accepting himself.”</p><p>“Hold on a second--” Quentin’s eyes narrowed comically. “Did you fuck Todd?”</p><p>“God no!” Eliot exclaimed. “But I have dommed him. Mostly when Margo was out of town. One time I made him reorganize my closet.” Eliot left out the part where he also made Todd feed him grapes in a cute little outfit.</p><p>Quentin shook his head, “What? He’s into that? Is that some kind of fetish?”</p><p>“Just, maybe give him a call.” Eliot suggested. “It might be good for you to talk to someone who is a submissive, even if you go about it differently.”</p><p>“Huh.” Quentin settled back down into Eliot’s side. “Todd. And he’s over there right now?” Eliot nodded, a bit worried Quentin was going to rush out into the hall to press his ear to her door. “Does Margo <em> really </em> have a red room?”</p><p>Eliot rolled his eyes. “She converted her guest bedroom into a closet, but <em> yes </em> there is a hook in the ceiling and a St. Andrews cross.”</p><p>“Jeez.” Quentin muttered, taking <em> Eliot’s </em>wine glass from him and draining the rest of it.</p><p>“She’s a collector,” Eliot said, “Kind of a pack rat honestly. We had a ton of stuff when he lived together, she kept most of it.”</p><p>Quentin jolted, “Do <em> you </em> have a red room?”</p><p>Eliot set his empty wine glass down and took Quentin by the hand to the other bedroom, where <em> yes </em> there was an actual guest bed, but there was also a chaise lounge and a rack of garment bags of his summer clothing. It was where he used to do any bedroom scenes and aftercare, preferring to keep his bedroom private from one night stands--he’d brought Quentin to his bedroom out of instinct.</p><p>“Oh my god, you have a <em> sex room </em> and you never told me!” Quentin hissed at him when Eliot flicked on the light.</p><p>“I also keep my collection of hip braces and medical ephemera in here. Prepare to be amazed.” Eliot said, pulling open the door to the closet where <em> yes, </em> there was medical equipment stashed within easy reach but there were also bins of things definitely <em> not </em> for pain relief. Each of them were labeled--he and Margo shared custody of a label maker because organization was <em> everything-- </em>Eliot’s favorite being ‘Dildos--1 of 2’.</p><p>Quentin grew quiet as he looked in on the shelves that he and Margo had installed shortly after moving in. His collection wasn’t nearly as big as Margo’s was. But it was curated. He kept only the things he liked the most, knew were reliable.</p><p>“This isn’t the part where you call me a pervert and run screaming from my apartment, is it?” Eliot asked after a <em> long </em> moment of Quentin staring into the closet, eventually putting a hand under his chin.</p><p>“Huh?” Quentin made a vague questioning sound. His hand touched the corner of one of the plastic tubs labeled ‘Gags’ on a shelf next to ‘Under Bed Restraints’ which he hadn’t pulled out in <em> far too long. </em></p><p>“Q?”</p><p>Quentin turned around. He stuffed his hands under his armpits. “You have stuff. I have like one dildo and a vibrator I lost the charger for in my move.”</p><p>Eliot thought fondly of his own vibrators, all of which lived in individual drawstring bags with their chargers.</p><p>“Yeah--it’s like books or knick knacks. You collect along the way for years and then suddenly your boyfriend is standing there looking like you’ve shown him the warehouse at the end of ‘<em> Raiders of the Lost Ark’ </em> .” Eliot shrugged, reaching around Quentin to flip on the light in the closet so he could see better. “It doesn’t mean we have to use all or it <em> any </em>of it.”</p><p>“Are you fucking nuts?” Quentin said, his voice suddenly turning accusatory. “I mean--how have I not seen this stuff before? Granted I probably actually would have come in my pants if I <em> had </em> the first night--you have an Instagram pantry but for <em> sex toys, Eliot!” </em></p><p>Eliot had to laugh. “I was trying to be on my best behavior. Didn’t want to toss you into the proverbial deep end.” He shrugged. “I didn’t know that you’d want to do any of this beyond just some basic stuff, which, I should reiterate, is 5 stars. I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”</p><p>“Hopes are up!” Quentin exclaimed. “Can I look through stuff? I feel like I’m at the hands-on exhibit of the Natural History Museum.”</p><p>Eliot shuddered. “I sanitize all this stuff every time I use it, please do not compare this to that germ factory. Plus, none of it’s stolen.”</p><p>But instead of arguing with him, Quentin was pulling a tub out of the closet and walking over to the bed. Eliot sat down on the chaise lounge and kicked up his feet, sitting back and answering questions whenever Quentin held up something.</p><p>Quentin went through and pulled out <em> both </em> of Eliot’s bins of dildos and he somehow managed to keep somewhat of a straight face even when Quentin picked up one of Eliot’s favorites in particular--kind of a hilarious pink and blue tie-dye color but nicely thick and sturdy with a prominent head and a good suction cup at the base--and made a surprised face at the feel of it.</p><p>“This is <em> squishy,” </em> He commented, “but also, <em> not.” </em> Quentin kind of waggled it around curiously.</p><p>“That’s good quality, dual density silicone. High density core, lower density around it so it’s comfy but you don’t feel like you’re being fucked by a marshmallow.”</p><p>“Huh.” Quentin gave it one last appraising look and cast it back into the box, putting the lid back on.</p><p>So then Eliot had to point out his <em> other </em> bin of dildos, which Quentin dug through like it was Christmas morning until he emerged holding an iridescent <em> monster </em> of a cock, all round exaggerated bulges and thick shaft.</p><p>“It’s called ‘The Knight King’. It glows in the dark.” He informed Quentin.</p><p>“Shut the fuck up.” Quentin was <em> holding </em>The Knight King to his chest.</p><p>“I think this could be classified as a weapon.” Once again Quentin seemed to think that waving a dildo through the air to test its heft was a selling point.</p><p>“Put that away before you pull something.” Eliot begged him.</p><p>But then Quentin was taking out coils of ropes so Eliot ended up explaining how depending on the material, rope would stretch or tighten if they got wet.</p><p>“Just never let someone tie you up unless you have their references, okay?” Eliot said when Quentin finally closed the bin and returned it to the closet.</p><p>Quentin seemed particularly interested in ‘Paddles, Floggers, Etc’. Eliot had to admit it was really doing something for him watching Quentin pick up one of the paddles, a firm wooden one that was smaller than his hand after the handle.</p><p>“It’s soft on one side.” Quentin commented, flipping it over, showing Eliot short faux fur.</p><p>“It feels good, soothing.” Eliot said, nodding. That one was <em> nice. </em></p><p>Quentin’s eyes lit up. He put the paddle back down and picked up a hairbrush, setting it back down with a line between his eyebrows.</p><p>“What--what did you do with it?” Quentin asked. And Eliot couldn’t tell if he was actually trying to turn him on, or if he was genuinely curious.</p><p>So regardless, Eliot told him.</p><p>“The last time, I just used the soft side. This guy was really into sensory deprivation.” Eliot said. Quentin balked. “You <em> do not </em> have to do that. But he liked it. So I put headphones on him, a blindfold and a gag. He had a bell so he could safeword. And I played with him for a long time, just running soft things all over him.” It was kind of hard to focus when Quentin was now leaning against the bed, twisting the handle and suede tails of a flogger in his hands absently, staring down at them. <em> Down boy, </em>Eliot thought to himself. “He didn’t want me to touch his dick or anything but he ended up coming and it was pretty intense.”</p><p>Eliot could have told him more, about the flush of success that had followed Eliot around for the next two weeks when it was over. The pep in his step. The deep satisfied feeling of a job well done, not unlike the one he’d felt when he’d gotten over his hip pain the first morning after. He didn’t want to admit that he was jonesing for it again like a hit. They weren’t there right now.</p><p>Quentin looked up, a flush working its way down his neck. “Did you come too?”</p><p>Eliot shook his head. “Nah, I waited until he left to jerk off but by then I was too tired.”</p><p>“Huh.” Quentin smiled a secret little smile and set the flogger down. He walked to the chaise and dropped to his knees there on the floor. “Hey.”</p><p><em> “Hey.” </em>Eliot repeated, tucking a piece of Quentin’s hair back behind his ear.</p><p>“You have lots of sex stuff.” Quentin said.</p><p>“I do, yes.” Eliot agreed. He <em> loved this man. </em></p><p>“I wanna try it out.” Quentin said, chin up. This was much more upfront than he usually was.</p><p>“Okay.” Eliot nodded. “We can.”</p><p>“Okay.” Quentin repeated.</p><p>And then because they were responsible, they went to bed at a reasonable hour.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>They were ‘coworking’. That’s what Quentin had called it, bopping into the studio with him that morning. They stopped to get coffee and pastries on the way in. Quentin hadn’t put up much of a fight that morning when Eliot had rolled over in bed and said, “I kinda don’t want to let you out of my sight until I know you’re better. Too much?” And Quentin had just burrowed in closer, into Eliot’s chest.</p><p>“Okay.” Quentin had agreed.</p><p>So they were coworking. Quentin, over on the terrible lumpy antique couch that Eliot should have gotten rid of years ago. Eliot, cutting patterns over at the table. Though, he kept finding himself glancing over at Quentin for long stretches of time, being so distracting with his typing and <em> general presence. </em></p><p>Eliot put in his AirPods as he worked. He’d binged his way through Quentin’s books at this point, going so far as to have them playing at all hours in his house while he cooked dinner and sketched at night. And yes, multiple times ended up horny while things were sautéing.</p><p>He had a pretty good idea of what he was going for with his costumes for the party. Lots of organza, asymmetrical elements, and armor. But he was trying to keep them a surprise for the party so the most that Eliot could do was work on drafting patterns, knowing that Quentin would look at them and see gibberish.</p><p>It was pretty clear by around lunch time that whatever this was, <em> Bring Your Boyfriend To Work Day </em>actually suited them pretty well. Quentin got up on occasion and slipped out onto the fire escape for some fresh air, Eliot gave him the code to get back into the building so he could go get them lunch later.</p><p>“It’s nice having you here.” Eliot told Quentin over wraps and pita chips.</p><p>“Are we going to become <em> that </em> couple who are always together?” Quentin smiled, looking just the littlest bit fond of the idea.</p><p>“I have no complaints about that.” Eliot shrugged. “I like you close.”</p><p>They very much had become <em> that couple </em>.</p><p>Quentin headed home that afternoon, leaving Eliot back at the studio to work more on his costumes. Quentin sent him a dark, blurry selfie with the Catwins in the background that night while Eliot took a Lyft back to his apartment.</p><p>Throughout the next week he and Quentin fell into a rhythm. Quentin popped over the bridge to Manhattan in the morning and diligently worked on his book over on Eliot’s couch while Eliot puttered around. At one point he went so far as taking a Skype call with the production staff of his show over at the little desk that Eliot barely used. Eliot couldn’t help smirking over at him every other minute in his little blazer and collared shirt on top coupled with worn black jeans on the bottom because he wanted to look <em> professional </em> but only what they could see on the screen. Then they’d switch back and forth between Eliot’s place and Quentin’s every other night.</p><p>More and more of Eliot’s things migrated over to Quentin’s house until on Friday morning, Eliot looked at the bathroom counter of Quentin’s apartment and there were more of his own products than Quentin’s. Eliot kept finding pens and little bits of paper all over his apartment, throwing them into the same glass for Quentin to retrieve. Quentin didn’t so much <em> leave </em> things behind as he did squirrel Eliot’s clothes away, never to return. Which was all well and good for Eliot since he got to enjoy Quentin undressing for the night to sleep <em> already </em> wearing one of Eliot’s old t-shirts.</p><p>Eliot <em> may </em> have indulged a bit and ordered Quentin some shirts in his own size, just some basic black and white crew neck shirts to replace the old, worn ones he was so fond of. Quentin had protested for about ten seconds before shaking his head, stopping himself. “Thank you.” He’d finally said. “Just don’t buy me anything too extravagant. Okay?”</p><p><em> So </em> that may have been a <em> problem </em> for Eliot, one that he’d had to explain while sitting on a little stool in his studio while Quentin stood up on a crate so Eliot could mark where he would be hemming his pants without ruining his knees for the day on the concrete floor.</p><p>“I want to get you something--a surprise.” Eliot said, smoothing the line of the trousers Quentin was wearing. The suit fit him pretty well at the waist, but whoever owned it before had been a lanky fucker. Eliot was taking up the pants and the sleeves of the vintage grey suit. Quentin looked somewhat like he was swimming in someone else’s clothes.</p><p>“This is already a surprise, Eliot.” Quentin said. “Really. It’s enough.”</p><p>“See this--” Eliot muttered, clipping more material methodically. “This is the part where you let me off the metaphorical leash when it came to stuff like this. Let me spoil you.”</p><p>Quentin let out a low chuckle, fidgeted from foot to foot on the box until Eliot firmly grabbed one of his thighs and steadied him.</p><p>“Fine.” Quentin nodded. “If it makes you happy.”</p><p>Oh and it <em> did </em> make Eliot happy. Very happy to fit Quentin for his suit, shushing him and moving him too and fro on a lazy Friday afternoon, knowing full well they were going back to his place to pack a <em> bag </em> for the weekend to be together. For the most part, Quentin did as he was told. He seemed intently interested in watching Eliot’s hands while he worked, and Eliot, being a vain creature, took great enjoyment in glancing coquettishly up at Quentin every now and then.</p><p>Eliot helped Quentin back out of the jacket, vest, and shirt--making sure that the clips were undisturbed for when he made his alterations. Eliot’s jaw pretty much hit the floor when he turned back around from placing the clothes carefully on his table to find that Quentin was wearing those masterful eggplant purple underwear that Margo had so helpfully sent over the week before, holding out the suit pants with a smirk.</p><p>“You said and I quote ‘For the love of god, put on some nice underwear.’” Quentin reminded him of their conversation that morning when Eliot had told Quentin they would be fitting him that day. Quentin, having changed in the bathroom after his shower that morning and then again at Eliot’s studio, had apparently been keeping this <em> secret </em> from Eliot all damn day.</p><p><em> “Quentin.” </em>Eliot leaned back against the table so that his legs wouldn’t go out from under him. “You’re kidding me with this. This is unfair.”</p><p>Quentin shrugged awkwardly like ‘<em> who me?’ </em> when he definitely <em> knew </em> what this was going to do to Eliot. He was only <em> human. </em> And Quentin standing there looking somewhat self satisfied and <em> smirky </em> in the middle of Eliot’s studio dressed in nothing but his socks and practically translucent underwear, <em> yeah it was unfair. </em></p><p>And then Quentin was all <em> distracting </em> and walking over to Eliot, pressing his whole body up against him and the table, warm skin <em> everywhere </em>like a weighted blanket over top of Eliot’s clothes. Quentin wormed his arms around Eliot’s neck, up on his tip toes and even then Eliot had to lean down to kiss him. Quentin made a happy little hum against his lips, opening instantly, seeking Eliot out. Eliot nipped at his lower lip the way that Quentin liked, found himself somewhat frantic within moments, his hands seeking out Quentin’s body all over, running down his back to cup his ass, draw him in closer.</p><p>Quentin pulled away with a moan, lips looking a little puffy, eyes all dark and lovely. Heat coursed through Eliot as he looked down, saw the evidence of Quentin’s arousal as he started to grow hard in the confines of that <em> truly spectacular </em> pair of underwear. It was enough to convince Eliot that Quentin should really just wear the <em> suggestion </em> of underwear under his clothes all the time. Quentin seemed amiable enough to that.</p><p>“Stockings.” Eliot growled, pulling Quentin up to sit on the work table so he could stand in the cradle of his hips, wrap those strong, hairy legs around Eliot’s waist. “I want to put you in stockings that come up to here.” Eliot ran his hands around Quentin’s upper thighs, right before his hip crease.</p><p>Quentin whimpered, “Yeah? Why?” and then he face planted into Eliot’s neck all open mouthed and hot.</p><p>“Your legs would look so <em> good.” </em>Eliot said, eyes slipping closed. Quentin’s waist contracting and expanding with his gasping breaths under Eliot’s hands. He pulled Quentin closer til he was practically hanging off the edge of the table. “All long and lean. And they feel so good--silk stockings. I could just picture you rubbing your legs together like when you get all hot for me just to feel them.”</p><p><em> “Eliot.” </em>Quentin groaned, switched tactics and sucked on Eliot’s earlobe like that wasn’t going to fully short out his nervous system. “Whatever you want. I’ll do it.”</p><p>Eliot lost himself there for a while, letting Quentin turn his neck into a battlefield of marks. He toyed with Quentin’s nipples until he was panting and moaning just straight into Eliot’s ear, his needy hips rocking incessantly into Eliot’s on the edge of the table.</p><p>“You’re so fucking beautiful, baby.” Eliot said, finally pulling Quentin back by the hair. His lips all puffy and red, eyes bright and alive with want. Quentin’s mouth tipped open farther when Eliot cupped his erection in his hand and rubbed over it slowly, skin dragging on the mesh of the underwear. “You want to come now or later when I can get you back to your apartment?”</p><p>“That’s <em> hours </em> away.” Quentin whined. “Do I get to come again later?” Quentin’s hands clenched on Eliot’s shoulders.</p><p>“If you’re good.” Eliot smiled down at him. “But you’re my good boy; shouldn’t be hard.”</p><p>Quentin nodded. “Now then, Daddy.”</p><p>Eliot groaned, having to lean down to kiss the words right out of Quentin’s mouth, a deep yearning hunger growing inside him. Quentin <em> knew </em> what that word did to him. Hearing it outside the confines of their apartments, having Quentin choose to say it--no prompting--was just like confetti dropping all over everything. Quentin tipped back against the table under Eliot’s onslaught, leaning in so far he ended up bent over Quentin, sending the other man back onto his elbows.</p><p>“You’ll have to be quiet, baby. Daddy’s at work.” Eliot said, pulling off to kiss his way down Quentin’s body, mouthing over his collarbone and pink little nipples. Quentin let out a high whimper, slapping a hand over his own mouth. “No, no, no. You can do it on your own.” Eliot said, he tugged off his tie and hastily wound it around Quentin’s wrists, not binding them or even tying them. He tucked the ends against Quentin’s palms so he could ball them into fists and <em> tug </em> if he wanted to, which he did all sprawled out atop Eliot’s table. But he could get free easily, this wasn’t a full-on scene. “Green?”</p><p>“Green.” Quentin nodded, holding his arms close to his chest. The burgundy paisley silk of the tie gave Eliot <em> inspiration, </em> reminding him of his gift, the other one he needed to fit Quentin for. <em> Later. </em> “Please touch me, Daddy.”</p><p>Eliot found the stool he’d been sitting on before, a little low but it put him at the perfect height to lean in and lick across the fabric Quentin’s underwear without having to hunch his back. “Come here, baby. I’ve got you.” Eliot said, hands winding into the fabric across his hips, using it to pull Quentin even closer to the edge of the table, till he was right there, served up to Eliot like a meal. He threw one of Quentin’s legs over his shoulder and set to work, torturing the poor boy with licks and nibbles over the mesh of the underwear.</p><p>Quentin let out a muffled whimper above him, Eliot hummed against him with praise, sucked at the head of his cock trapped against his hip until the mesh was soaked and clinging to him wetly.</p><p>“Can’t fuck you here.” Eliot said, thumbing the dark crease between Quentin’s cheeks, trying for a glimpse of his beautiful boy writhing against the table. He’d never be able to draft a pattern without getting hard. “You wouldn’t be able to hold it all in for me, would you? You get so loud.” Eliot tutted. “Can’t have everyone in the building hearing you begging me to use you, can we?”</p><p>Quentin’s bound hands dropped down to his hips, for a moment Eliot thought he might be trying to take himself in hand, but instead his fingers wiggled and he made a desperate little sound.</p><p>“You wanna hold my hand, Peach?” Eliot asked. Quentin’s head popped up off the table, his lower lip clamped firmly between his teeth. He nodded. He was such a <em> dear. </em> “Aww, you’re such a sweet boy. I’ll hold your hand. Here, I’m right here.”</p><p>Quentin held onto Eliot as best he could, panting against the table as Eliot dropped his head back down and peeled the front of his underwear down with his free hand, gripping him at the base so he could swallow him down.</p><p>Quentin’s heel kicked against Eliot’s back as he tried to hold in his sounds. Eliot growled against the salty weight of Quentin in his mouth, taking him all the way down to the base with a practiced swallow, dropping his jaw. His baby loved the idea of someone hearing him come undone; he was doing such a good job trying to keep quiet for his Daddy.</p><p>A few gasps spilled forth from Quentin as things grew slick and messy. Eliot held Quentins hands with one of his own and pulled on the underwear trapped under Quentin’s drawn up balls with the other, until the waistband pulled tight against Quentin’s thighs. Within moments Quentin was shivering all over, gasping half words, punctuated by the wet sounds of Eliot’s mouth as he bobbed up and down on Quentin’s cock.</p><p>“You’re close, aren’t you, baby?” Eliot pulled off with a heavy breath. Quentin squeezed his hand, eyes closed so tightly it looked painful. “That’s fucking perfect. Come whenever you’re ready. You earned it.”</p><p>Quentin spilled in Eliot’s mouth with a gasp, his leg pulling Eliot in even tighter to his body and the table. Eliot swallowed around him, cupping his balls, rolling them in his palm as he twitched.</p><p>Eliot uncurled Quentin’s leg from his shoulder, setting it gently down against the table. He dropped a kiss to his hip crease and tucked Quentin’s softening cock back into his underwear with one last brush of his thumb over the head that made Quentin whimper and draw his hips away.</p><p>When Eliot was a kid, he had a stuffed bear, he loved it to pieces but it had lived a life before coming to him. It never sat up where he put it, its head flopping back under its own weight until it fell off the bed when he tried to have tea with it. When he got Quentin sitting back up, he had that same glassy-eyed, loose limbed quality to him, leaning into Eliot’s hold. He swayed there on the edge of the table, quiet and smiling all secretly while they got him back into his day clothes.</p><p>“You’re so good to me, El.” Quentin said, pulling him in for a hug up on his tiptoes.</p><p>Eliot kissed his forehead, tucked Quentin under his chin. He was hard against Quentin’s stomach, but neither of them mentioned it. That was for later. And Eliot had <em> plans. </em></p><p>“Likewise, Peach.” Eliot squeezed him. “Should we call it a day? Head out early?”</p><p>Quentin nodded quietly. “Yeah, I think I’m all tapped out for today. <em> Work wise, </em>not like--I could still, you know.”</p><p>Eliot chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Let’s get to my place so you can shop my closet and then we’ll see what fun we can get into this weekend, huh?”</p><p>Quentin pulled away, looking Eliot in the eye. “Wait--the sex closet?” Eliot nodded. “Did you rent a U-Haul?”</p><p>No, he certainly hadn’t. That didn’t mean it didn’t sound <em> tempting. </em> Brooklyn was, <em> after all, </em> just across the river.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments! I love your feedback! XXOO</p>
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